There was no window. How had he not noticed it before? The small window above his desk was just . . . gone. His drawings were still all there, the only thing that could not be replaced. Except they weren’t his. In this drawing, Mom’s eyes were too small. The stars were wrong in the spaceship sketch, and it was flying the wrong way. And there was the drawing of his imaginary dog. He hadn’t drawn this. His drawing of the dog was cute. This dog leered at him, his teeth too sharp, his tongue too long, a bad dog. A dog that ate children.
