Another was the thing that had happened to us when I was seven.

Vivi called before I’d even reached the end of the street. I took the call on my AirPods, knowing without even looking at my screen that it was her.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re up early. It can’t even be lunchtime in Budapest.”

“Ha ha.” Vivi’s voice sounded muffled, distracted. “What are you doing?”

“I’m out for a run. You know, the thing I do every morning.” I turned left and ran along the footpath, past empty sports fields and the carcasses of trees that stood tall and stripped in the cold. It was a gray morning, the sun yawning sluggishly into the sky behind a pall of clouds. The chill needled my exposed skin, drawing tears from my eyes and making my ears ache with each heartbeat.

“Ew,” Vivi said. I heard an airline announcement in the background. “Why would you do that to yourself?”

“It’s the latest rage for cardiovascular health. Are you at an airport?”

“I’m flying in for a gig tonight, remember? I just landed in London.”

“No, I do not remember. Because you definitely didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sure I told you.”

“That would be a negative.”

“Anyway, I’m here, and Grey’s flying in from Paris for some photo shoot today, and we’re all hanging out in Camden before the gig. I’ll pick you up when I get out of this god-awful airport.”

“Vivi, it’s a school day.”

“You’re still at that soul-destroying institution? Wait, hang on, I’m going through immigration.”

My usual path took me through the green fields of Golders Hill Park, the grass sprinkled with a confetti bomb of yellow daffodils and white-and-purple crocuses. It had been a mild winter and spring was breaking already, rolling across the city in mid-February.

Minutes dragged by. I heard more airline announcements in the background as I ran along the western border of Hampstead Heath, then into the park, past the blanched milkstone of Kenwood House. I headed deeper into the twisting wildwood warrens of the heath, so tight and green and old in places it was hard to believe you were still in London. I gravitated to the untamed parts, where the trails were muddy and thick fairy-tale trees grew over them in archways. The leaves would soon begin to return, but this morning I moved beneath a thicket of stark branches, my path bordered on both sides by a carpet of fallen detritus. The air here smelled sodden, bloated with damp. The mud was thin from recent rain and flicked up the back of my calves as I pushed on. The sun was rising now, but the early-morning light was suffused with a drop of ink. It made the shadows deep, hungry-looking.

My sister’s garbled voice on the phone: “You still there?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Much to my chagrin. Your phone manners are appalling.”

“As I was saying, school is thoroughly boring and I am very exciting. I demand you cut class and hang out with me.”

“I can’t—”

“Don’t make me call the administration and tell them you need the day off for an STD test or something.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Okay, good chat, see you soon!”

“Vivi—”

The line went quiet at the same time a pigeon shot out of the undergrowth and into my face. I yelped and fell backward into the muck, my hands instinctively coming up to protect my head even though the bird had already fluttered away. And then—a small movement on the path far ahead. There was a figure, obscured by trees and overgrown grass. A man, pale and shirtless despite the cold, far enough away that I couldn’t tell if he was even looking in my direction.

From this distance, in the gunmetal light, it appeared as though he was wearing a horned skull over his head. I thought of my sister on the cover of Vogue, of the antlers her models wore on the catwalk, of the beasts she embroidered on her silk gowns.

I took a few deep breaths and lingered where I sat in the mud, unsure if the man had seen me or not, but he didn’t move. A breeze cooled my forehead, carrying with it the smell of woodsmoke and the wild wet stench of something feral.

I knew that smell, even if I couldn’t remember what it meant.

I scrambled to my feet and ran hard in the direction I’d come from, my blood hot and quick, my feet slipping, visions of a monster snagging my ponytail playing on repeat in my head. I kept checking behind me until I passed Kenwood House and stumbled out onto the road, but no one followed.

The world outside the green bubble of Hampstead Heath was busy, normal. London was waking up. When I caught my breath, my fear was replaced by embarrassment that a wet brown stain had spread over the back of my leggings. I stayed alert while I ran home, the way women do, one AirPod out, a sharp slice of adrenaline carving up the line of my spine. A passing cabdriver laughed at me, and a man out for his first cigarette of the day told me I was beautiful, told me to smile.

Both left a prickle of fright and anger in my gut, but I kept running, and they faded back into the white noise of the city.

That’s the way it was with Vivi and Grey. All it took was one phone call from them for the strangeness to start seeping in again.

At the end of my street, I messaged my middle sister:

DO NOT come to my school.

2

At home, I found my mother’s red Mini Cooper in the driveway and the front door ajar. It keened open and closed on its hinges, breathing with the wind. Wet footprints tracked inside. Our ancient demon of a cat, Sasha, was sitting on the doormat, licking her paw. The cat was older than me, and so threadbare and crooked she was beginning to look like a bad taxidermy job. She hissed when I picked her up—Sasha had never liked me or Vivi or Grey, and she made her feelings known with her claws—but she was too decrepit these days to put up much of a fight.