My vision narrows as my eyes focus on my father’s hand, which still rests—still as stone—in mine. I press his hand to my face. It’s illogical, but there’s something in me that wants to connect him to something living, as though I am trying to will life back into his motionless form.

Slowly, I realize that I’d been speaking, rasping, “No! No! No!” over and over. I didn’t even notice, because the ringing in my ears is so loud. The sound is deafening, but I can somehow still hear the beat of my heart. It feels as though everything has slowed way down—like a movie. Nothing feels real. Everything feels artificial.

I become aware of a cool hand on my shoulder, trying to pull me gently away from my father’s lifeless form.

My hold tightens, but I hear a voice in my ear—

“It’s all right. Let go now,” the low voice says gently. “He’s at peace now.”

I whip around to look at Malcolm, the voice and hand behind me. “What are you talking about?! Call for an ambulance! This can’t just be over! Not like this! I just got here! I didn’t even get a chance—I need more time! More time! It can’t be over yet.”

“Ms. Cunningham—” Malcolm starts, but I’m not listening.

“That can’t be the last moment I have with my father!”

“William knew he was dying,” Malcolm continues in the same, quiet voice. “He probably should have passed days ago. He was holding on for you, so that he could say goodbye. And you got that moment. You both did.”

Maybe Malcolm thinks his words are soothing, but they’ve brought me zero comfort. How could they, when it feels as though my heart is being torn out of my chest?

I turn back around to look at my father, whose skin is starting to look gray. Tears stream down my face as I lean closer, burying my face in the blanket. “Daddy!” I whisper, my voice muffled. “Daddy, don’t leave me alone here. Please!”

The room around me disappears. I am alone—all alone—in the darkness now. Grief is trying to pull me under, and I let it, feeling my head swim. I’ve fainted before, and it’s happening again, but I don’t fight against it. I’m just glad to have the pain end.

***

I wander through the manor grounds. I am little, so I can barely see over the box hedges. A butterfly fluttered into the morning parlor’s open door, and—following it—I wandered out into the sunshine. But now I can’t even see the house. My escape has gone unnoticed, because there’s no grown-up in sight.

The sun seems to disappear, and I look up to see the woods before me. My father likes to go into the woods. Maybe he’s there now.

But he is not. No one is. I am alone in the darkening woods. I start to cry—I’m scared and cold. “Daddy!” I call into the darkness. “Daddy?!”

I call for him for what feels like hours. I am barely able to breathe through my sobs.

“Daddy, I’m here!” I call. “I’m right here!”

There’s a rustling in the underbrush behind me, and arms close around me. I’m lifted off the ground, and my heart races. A monster—this is what I’ve been afraid of.

But then I hear his voice. “Child, it’s me. It’s me. You were lost. But I found you. Don’t you know, child? I will never leave you. I will never leave you alone in the darkness.”

I will never leave you alone in the darkness.

I sit up straight in bed, my heart thudding in my chest. I’ve been dreaming. Getting lost in the woods and being found by my father is my first solid memory of childhood. I’ve dreamt of it before, but it’s been years.

I look around the dark room. The drapes are open, and I can see that night has fully fallen now. But the moon is bright, making the shadow of the elm tree outside the window play patterns against the wall.

Taking a deep breath, I wish I could close my eyes again. I wish I could return to that dream—to the memory of my father finding me in the dark. To the feel of his arms around me.

But his words echo in my head, making my stomach tighten with pain. Because he lied to me. He promised he would never leave me alone in the dark, and now where am I?

I look around the room again, as though to prove it to myself. I am alone. In the dark. Back in a country I never thought I would ever return to. And I am full of questions of how and why my father has just died. Because none of it makes any sense to me. Nothing I’ve been told since I stepped foot in this country seems to add up.

A tall, shadowy figure in the corner of the room catches my eye, and I whip my head to look at it. Heart beating fast, I fumble for the light and click it on. Then I nearly laugh.

The shadowy figure is my old anatomy skeleton. I’d called it Lefty when my father had brought home the fully articulated skeleton. He’d given it to me just as soon as I’d told him that I wanted to be a scientist when I grew up. I’d told him I wanted to find out everything about how the body worked.

I looked at Lefty, thinking—for the first time—that it was an odd gift for a ten-year-old. To most ten-year-olds, anyway. But it had been perfect for me. Almost like my own weird-kid version of a stuffed teddy bear. Good old Lefty.

I rub a hand over my eyes, then through my hair. An idea is forming in my head, and then—with a deep breath—I get to my feet, suddenly sure of what I want to do.

Stepping over to my old desk, I pull open the biggest drawer and start to riffle through the contents, looking through the collection of old laboratory paraphernalia until I find what I’m looking for—a glass vial.

I step over to the edge of the bed where someone has deposited my suitcase. Inside I pull out my medical kit, where I store my samples. My hands are shaking slightly as I catch it up, barely able to think about what I’m about to do.

With my kit clutched in my hand, I fling open my own door and head back to my father’s room.

The door is barely ajar when I reach it, and as I swing it open, my heart rate ticks up. Malcolm is nowhere to be seen, but my father is still lying in his bed, still as stone.

Taking a deep breath, I walk into the room. The lights have been switched off, but even in the darkness I can see that his face is clean. Someone—Malcolm, no doubt—has washed away the streaked blood.

At least…I think he has. His face was bloody when I walked in, I’m sure of it. Well, I’m almost sure of it.

Is it possible that I just imagined that horrific image? Is it possible that it was nothing but a symptom of my terror?

But no—I’m certain it wasn’t, because when I glance at the small trash can next to the bedside table, I see a mountain of bloody gauze that was used to wipe the blood from his face.

Taking a steadying breath, I flip open the kit and sort through the instruments. I grab what I need—a needle and the vial.

But they slip in my hand when I look down at my father’s lifeless face.

“Can I do this?” I whisper to myself. Can I just take a sample from him, as though he’s just another cadaver in my lab? Is it possible for me to be dispassionate here? Because this isn’t just any dead body. This is my father.

“Just do it,” I tell myself, taking another breath. “You can do this.” And I can. I’ve done this thousands of times before now, so I allow myself to slip into my routine.

I turn his arm over and palpate the vein. I find the one that feels the most significant, then slide my needle in, feeling the small, almost indiscernible pop as the needle pierces the skin.

Attaching the vial to the tubing, I wait for a moment, then sigh with relief when I see the blood running through the tube into the vial.

But then I stop. The room is dim, but it’s not so dark that I can’t see something very, very strange. The blood in the vial is black. Pure black, dark as tar.

I frown at this, my head already spinning as I try to work out what could be the cause of that. Whatever it is, I’ll find it out. And then I’ll figure out what killed my father.

The vial full, I pull out the tubing and cap the needle again. I tuck the needle into my case for safe disposal and am just about to do the same with the vial when a voice behind me makes me stop cold.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going with that?”