didn’t even think to do it, especially since it was too dark for a camera to catch anything. But by the time the nights were more than half-filled with stories that weren’t ours, Addie and I taped everything. It wasn’t even for Marion. It was for us, and for the storytellers themselves, even if they didn’t know it. I wanted to capture this little piece of them. Save these whispered fragments of their lives.
I said to Addie one night.
Addie said.
We spent our nights spinning tales. During the days, we kept our promise to teach Bridget how to lockpick. She was a fast learner, easily frustrated with herself, but diligent with a narrow-minded sense of purpose.
When Addie and I weren’t with her, we spent as much time as possible with Hannah—or Millie, as her other soul was named. They couldn’t make it near our bed at night, so we whispered to them during the day. But they continued fading. They no longer coughed. They didn’t seem to have the strength.
I said desperately.
Addie’s voice was as tense as mine.
I stared at the pallor of Hannah’s skin. The pink of her eyelids. The blue tinge of her lips. Her bed stank, and the smell permeated the rest of the ward. Some of the other girls had started falling sick, too, their coughing and sneezing making up for Hannah and Millie’s silence. But thank God, none of them seemed to have anything worse than a cold.
I hadn’t let myself believe that. Not truly. Not until this moment, when I let the word slip from my mind to Addie’s, crossing the at once infinitesimal and infinite space between her and me.
So Addie didn’t protest when, at dinnertime, I stopped the caretaker as he handed us our tray. “Hannah needs help,” I said.
Every girl in the ward stopped what she was doing and stared at us. Every girl, that is, except Hannah and Viola. The former was utterly still. The latter hadn’t stopped moving, her mind someplace beyond the reach of my words.
“Sorry?” The caretaker seemed more confused than anything.
“Hannah.” I pointed to the corner where her bed remained all alone. “She’s been sick for . . .” I realized I didn’t know how long we’d been at Hahns. “For weeks. And she’s gotten worse. I don’t think she’s going to recover without medicine.”
The room was silent.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the caretaker said finally. He even smiled, just a little. Like he meant it to be a comfort.
We ate. He left. The lights went out.
Everyone gathered, as usual, for the storytelling. But Addie and I didn’t share. We could think of nothing but the girl in the bed in the corner, and how we couldn’t hear her breathe.
We were one of the first to wake up the next morning. The other girls lay huddled in their beds, cocooned inside layers of blankets. Bridget’s eyes fluttered open, then shut again.
Blearily, I sat up.
And saw.
Hannah’s bed had been stripped clean. No pillow. No blanket. Not even the mattress remained. Only the cold metal frame. A skeleton.
Hannah and Millie were gone.
FOURTEEN
O ne missing girl shouldn’t have made the ward seem so different, especially one who’d barely spoken, hardly ever moved. But Hannah’s absence ripped a hole in the fabric of the room. The other girls were quieter than normal, and they gave the bed in the corner an even wider berth, like it was haunted or cursed.
When the ward’s main door clanged open, I didn’t even bother looking over. It was getting to be breakfast time, and I was too focused
We spent our nights spinning tales. During the days, we kept our promise to teach Bridget how to lockpick. She was a fast learner, easily frustrated with herself, but diligent with a narrow-minded sense of purpose.
When Addie and I weren’t with her, we spent as much time as possible with Hannah—or Millie, as her other soul was named. They couldn’t make it near our bed at night, so we whispered to them during the day. But they continued fading. They no longer coughed. They didn’t seem to have the strength.
I hadn’t let myself believe that. Not truly. Not until this moment, when I let the word slip from my mind to Addie’s, crossing the at once infinitesimal and infinite space between her and me.
So Addie didn’t protest when, at dinnertime, I stopped the caretaker as he handed us our tray. “Hannah needs help,” I said.
Every girl in the ward stopped what she was doing and stared at us. Every girl, that is, except Hannah and Viola. The former was utterly still. The latter hadn’t stopped moving, her mind someplace beyond the reach of my words.
“Sorry?” The caretaker seemed more confused than anything.
“Hannah.” I pointed to the corner where her bed remained all alone. “She’s been sick for . . .” I realized I didn’t know how long we’d been at Hahns. “For weeks. And she’s gotten worse. I don’t think she’s going to recover without medicine.”
The room was silent.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the caretaker said finally. He even smiled, just a little. Like he meant it to be a comfort.
We ate. He left. The lights went out.
Everyone gathered, as usual, for the storytelling. But Addie and I didn’t share. We could think of nothing but the girl in the bed in the corner, and how we couldn’t hear her breathe.
We were one of the first to wake up the next morning. The other girls lay huddled in their beds, cocooned inside layers of blankets. Bridget’s eyes fluttered open, then shut again.
Blearily, I sat up.
And saw.
Hannah’s bed had been stripped clean. No pillow. No blanket. Not even the mattress remained. Only the cold metal frame. A skeleton.
Hannah and Millie were gone.
FOURTEEN
O ne missing girl shouldn’t have made the ward seem so different, especially one who’d barely spoken, hardly ever moved. But Hannah’s absence ripped a hole in the fabric of the room. The other girls were quieter than normal, and they gave the bed in the corner an even wider berth, like it was haunted or cursed.
When the ward’s main door clanged open, I didn’t even bother looking over. It was getting to be breakfast time, and I was too focused
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