I wanted to go back in time. It was all I could think about. I want to go back. Give her back to me. I want her to live. Those words, said aloud, could have been a spell. I could dig my thumbnail into that old, healed wound on my hand and rip it open again. I could bite down on my cheek until I drew blood. I could spit three times onto the promenade, tear out a hank of my hair, pluck eyelashes from their raw lids. There was possibility in ritual. The hopeless idea of forever. But I kept my mouth shut and followed them home.
