A churning stomach keeps sleep as nothing more than an unobtainable dream. I might have gotten an hour or two of actual rest, but that’s about it. The rest of the time I’ve been making plaster constellations out of ceiling cracks and praying for sleep to take me away for a little while longer.

It never does.

I’m trapped in this living nightmare instead. After a while, I simply refuse to close my eyes anymore. Why should I? They only show me terrible things. Miranda’s shaky arms wrapped around Daddy bleeding in the dirt. Morgan is down there, too, with that stupid little knife of his. Then there’s Mom, who—right before being pulled into the murderous crowd—said, “I’m sorry.”

To Me! Why??? It was supposed to be me!!!...

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