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And perhaps I’m watching history replay itself, once again experiencing the same emotions.

Desperate. Frustrated.

Useless.

Chapter Twenty

“Stupid twins. Like they’reso special,” I mutter, hugging my notebook to my chest.

A hot feeling burns in my belly. I want to sneak into their rooms and draw on their walls. Rip up their books. Make a mess.

But then I remember what Mom said before.

Tell a story. Make it fun. Maybe I can cook with her later if she isn’t busy.

Pain carves into my chest and I flinch. I want to escape, but I can’t move my arms and legs.

It’s happening again—the nightly torture of horrid memories parading behind my eyelids when I fall asleep.

Darkness suffocates me, and a scream gurgles in my throat.

Nothing comes out—no sound, no movements. I’m locked in.

Stop it, Rex. Stop it before it’s too late.

Sweat sticks to my forehead, but the images fire at me like bullets from a machine gun.

The Persian carpet sweeps into my vision again, the clinking of marbles striking against the wall as crisp as if it happened yesterday.

“You’re not a twin. You can’t play with us.” I mimic Ryland’s voice, my tummy clenching. “Meanie.”

A story! Tell a story.

I toss a red marble at the wall, over and over. Sitting on the top step of the big staircase at home, I try to think of a new story. Something fun, something to do with cooking. Mom will like that.

Themarble pings then plops on the carpeted floor before rolling down the stairs to the first floor.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Like dominos.

I open my notebook and write with my blue crayon.

There once was a big red dragon who loved to eat little boys…like twins.

I grin, my heart galloping. That’s so mean, Rex.

I pull out a new marble, then another, and throw them down the stairs. The colors of the marbles are part of my story, which is about twins being cooked into a stew along with broccoli and beets because those veggies are gross.

A door bangs in the distance. I jump. I hate loud noises. Two voices—a man and a woman. Mom? They sound…mad?

My heart vaults to my throat, my pulse a hurricane in my ears, but I’m still trapped in the straitjacket of my sleep.Stop them, Rex. Move. Stop playing with your damn marbles.

I’m in the scene and yet, I’m vaguely aware it isn’t reality.

Then the vortex sucks me back in.

My clothes are dripping wet as I run back indoors. It started drizzling the moment I ran outside to get away from the noise, the yelling.

Grinning, I hold the slippery frog in my hands. The twins will get a nice surprise when they go to their bedroom later.