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Mrs. Bracket turns out to be a stout, curly-haired woman wearing Crocs and a thick, wool-knit sweater. She bustles into the house in a rush, giving Reed a quick hug and making a beeline for the couch. For me.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says, and on any other day, I'd be sickened by the sweetness in her tone. Tonight, however, it's completely welcome. "I'm Janet. What's your name?"

I swallow, trying my hardest to force the word from my throat.

Evelyn, I say. My name is Evelyn.

All that emerges, however, is a high-pitched squeak. Janet's brows slam down abruptly, her mouth a thin line.

"Her name's Evelyn," Reed says from behind her, and concern is etched all across his face—he looks years older, as if these past few hours have worn away his youthful, positive self.

Don't frown so much, Bishop, I want to joke, You'll get worry lines.

But, of course, he wouldn't be able to understand me.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bracket is examining the rest of me, a small pair of square-framed glasses balancing on the tip of her nose.

"Okay, Evelyn," she murmurs, almost to herself. Her fingers, gentle but firm, press along my arms, traveling down to my wrists. I try my hardest not to flinch away, but she seems to catch onto my discomfort, because she lifts her fingers and asks, "Does that hurt?"

She waits for my response, but I can't give her one. Instead, she blows out a breath and says,

"Okay. I'm going to keep asking you questions, but you have to work with me a little bit. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Can you do that for me, honey?"

I blink, relieved for at least a scrap of communication. She smiles.

"Great. Alright, Evelyn—does it hurt when you try to talk?"

Blink.

"Does it hurt when I touch you here?" She presses down on my arm, and a flash of pain travels up it. I blink as rapidly as possible, and she lifts her hand. "How about here?"

It hurts pretty much everywhere, we soon discover. I blink so often that my eyes begin to water a little, but the woman is relentless. She pokes and prods and preens until she's written at least two pages' worth of information in her little, floral-printed notebook.

"Okay. Now we're going to move on to the more personal questions, okay? I need you to answer these with as much honesty as you can. Are you ready?"

Do I have a choice? I wonder, but blink anyways.

"Great. You're doing great, sweets. Before we start, do you want Reed to leave the room? It's okay if you want some privacy."

My gaze flicks over to Reed, who has his hands stuck deep into his pockets, feet shuffling as if he's already expecting me to demand his exit. If I could, I would tease him.

Instead, I blink twice. Janet's brows raise, but she simply waves him over.

"She wants you to stay, Reed. Come over here; hold her hand."

A burst of satisfaction erupts in my chest as I see the surprised look on his face, his brows knitting together as if to ask, are you sure?

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