I can’t stop.
I don’t want to stop.
I am K-N-O-T stopping.
That’s right, baby. Don’t stop.
“This is for Noah,” I shout, twisting the knife in what I hope is his heart.
“And this is for America!” I pull the knife out and plunge it right back in with more force, more fury, more anger.
“Andthis”—spit sprays from my lips—“is for Alex!” I ram the knife into his shoulder, completely missing my target. I shake out my arm before attempting to remove the knife from the bone. It takes a lot of effort—more than I ever imagined. I’m not that strong.
Yes, you are, Noah. You are strong. Stronger.
A splash of blood hits my cheek, and I’m momentarily thrown back into the rain.
Noah, stay focused.Don’t go there!
Shut up, Meera!
No. No. Nooo.
I shake my head, wiping the back of my hand across my cheek, smearing blood across my face. I glance down at the knife buried deep in his motionless body. It’s stuck. It doesn’t matter. I’m not worried about fingerprints.
Because I don’t exist.
None of us does.
I lean over his back and trace my initials into the blood… N.J.
“Meera?”
I jolt at the name. Mom freezes, then takes a step—then another—back as if she’s seen something she can’t place.
My name isn’t Meera. Why would she call me that?
Unless…
No.
She can’t see her. That’s impossible. She’s inside me. Not beside me. Not behind me.Insideme.
Mom’s gaze falters, fixed just over my shoulder.
There’s nothing there.
There is nothere.
A pressure gathers at the edge of my thoughts, like someone leaning forward to be noticed. Like breath near my ear.
Stop.
Mom must recognize the name. From before. From all those years of hearing me talk when no one else was in the room. From the whispers. From the pauses that sounded like answers. Maybe she heard the name slip out. Maybe she’d stood outside my door and listened.
Maybe she’s always known.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, fingers fumbling at the blond hair falling into my face as I shove it aside so she can see my eyes. Meera has green eyes—mine are blue. Clear blue. Can’t she see the difference?
