“Because … I think I saw a … a … ghost …” Even with all that’s happened, and everything racing through my head, I realize how dumb it sounds the moment it comes out. I don’t even believe in ghosts. Well, didn't used to, anyway.
She slowly lifts an eyebrow. “Really? And is this conveniently timed ghost supposed to make me feel bad for you? Make me forgive what you’ve just done?”
Her eyes bore into me.
“I … ” I go silent, tightening my trembling hands.
“Are you doing drugs with those girls?” she says.
I have to clench my jaw to stop myself from screaming. “Why do you think I would do drugs?” I say through gritted teeth, shivering from both fear and rage. “My friends don’t do them either. Forget it, alright? The desert was dark and hard to see.”
“You went to the desert? After what we just talked about? Really?” she says like I’m stupid.
I don’t say anything.
“Harper?” She snaps her fingers in my face.
“There was no one in the desert, Mom. It was fine,” I say flatly, to hide the sting in my throat.
She claps her hand to her forehead. “I can’t even, Harper. No more tonight, please. I’m done.” She shoves a grocery bag into my hands and pushes past me. Brett follows behind her like the little lap dog he is.
After a silent meal full of glares and aggressive meatloaf cutting, I take the dishes to the sink and load them into the dishwasher. When I return to the dining area, Mom immediately points to my room. I get up and push in my chair.
“Not just her,” Mom says, looking at Brett and Olivia “Everyone. Now.” she roars.
“They didn’t do anything,” I say, watching Olivia hang her head.
“It’s not great to have everyone pay for your actions, is it, Harper?” Mom taps her fingers against her arm, a threatening expression on her face.
Not fighting back would bring everyone the most peace so I hold my tongue and, like prisoners, we march upstairs to our bedrooms.
When I open my bedroom door, the papers on the wall give me pause: my printouts of dozens of nebula and space photographs are taped to the 70s orange oak paneling.
Fueled by my annoying, illogical paranoia, I rip them down and shove them into a box in my closet, promising them and myself that I’ll put them all up again when I stop being such a baby.
The moment I hear Mom’s TV turn on, I sneak across the hall into Olivia’s room. When I open the door, I find Olivia reading a newspaper in bed.
“Harper! Jeez! Knock first! And don’t be so careless!”
That hurts a little. “Careless” is Mom’s favorite word for me. I know Olivia doesn’t mean it. Mom was probably just going off about what a bad daughter I am when they all went shopping earlier.
“What are you reading?” I ask, answering my own question when I see, The RSE Sleeping Syndrome Is Here! in giant bold letters across the page.
Her voice quivers. “Mom said we should be ready, you know, if it comes here.”
The inflicted fear in her big eyes presses against me like a hot iron. I want to stomp down the hall and yell at Mom for making this innocent thirteen year old girl feel this way. But I hold back my emotions and plop on Olivia’s bed instead, wrapping my arm around her.
“What do I need to know?” I say cheerily.
“Well … the first symptom is euphoria. It says to watch out for people who may appear intoxicated or on drugs. That’s followed by the unavoidable urge to sleep. After someone falls asleep, death comes in about twenty-four hours.”
“Strange,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s very strange. Like Mom said, they aren’t even sure what it is, but they suspect it’s a super fast version of … ” She points to a spot on the paper and struggles to pronounce the words, “Bo-vine spong-i-form en-ceph-alop-athy.”
I recognize the term from biology. “Mad cow disease?”
Olivia looks up from the paper, her big eyes get even larger. “So you know more?”
I recall that mad cow disease erodes holes in your brain so that it eventually looks like a sponge. But there’s no way I’m telling Olivia that.
“You don’t need to worry about it, Olivia. We have a better shot at winning the lottery.”
“But if I do get it, they don’t have a cure for it! Just like Mom said!”
Another wave of white-hot anger burst through me, but I say reassuringly, “Sure, everybody is panicking about it now, but it probably won’t spread. The only case in the United States is that homeless shelter all the way in New York. And it didn’t spread after it wiped out that small village the first time.”
She frowns, seemingly unconvinced.
“Besides, why would anyone from New York ever want to come to crappy old Reno, Nevada? Everyone wants to get the hell out of this crap hole the first chance they get. They’d much rather go to California or somewhere way cooler ... Like us one day.”
She smiles.
I grab the newspaper and toss it across the room, making it rain paper.
She laughs, which makes my anger subside.
“You want to have a slumber party like old times?” I ask her.
She grins, slides over in her bed, and pats my usual spot.

When I finally manage to drift off, I’m standing in a hazy gray desert, where the glowing creature materializes. I throw rocks at it, tons of them, but they do no good. So I run. I run as fast and as far as I can, straight into an inky abyss. Then I hear funny noises, like a trombone trying to scream human words. Like the glowing creature is calling for me through the mist.
The strange sounds from my dream morph into human words.
“Olivia.” Mom’s voice drags me from sleep as she knocks on Olivia’s door. “Your doctor’s appointment is in ten minutes. Come on. I can’t be too late for work.”
“Oh sorry! I forgot,” Olivia says.
The bed springs squeak as Olivia jumps up, and the bathroom faucet starts running shortly after. Mom and Olivia have left by the time my eyes are fully open.
I make my way to the kitchen downstairs.
“Hey Brett. About last night —”
“Harper. Dear God. Not right now. I have more important things to worry about than how you and Mom can’t stand each other. I’m not going to be in the middle again!”
He’s such a dick sometimes. Without uttering another word, Brett shoves granola bars into his backpack.
“I thought Mom told us not to leave,” I say flatly, as I prepare a bowl of cereal.
He gives me a contemptuous glance. “I’m allowed to go to work, Harper.”
“I hate being homeschooled,” I huff. “And Mom won’t let me get a job,” I say under my breath, bitterly shoving a spoon of cereal into my mouth.
“I called Mrs. Nunez next door.” Brett says. He snaps his bike helmet on. “If you leave, she’ll see you. And Mom is going to be calling the house every hour to make sure you’re here. So don’t go anywhere!”
“Got it,” I say. Mrs. Nunez is a retired librarian who lives next door with her husband. She’s usually knitting, watching TV, or snooping on the neighborhood by her front window. The most excitement she probably gets in life is from spying on us.