Another door, I said. What? Doors can be dangerous. You never know what’s on the other side, what you’re letting in. True, she said. In stories, girls are always opening doors, always the wrong ones. Always crossing thresholds thinking they’re getting away free. Nothing is free. Marguerite ran a finger down the side of her face, as if remembering someone else’s touch. It doesn’t matter which door you open, she said. Three or ten or thirteen doorways, there are wolves behind them all.
