Teeth. It was always the teeth that woke her. The way they scraped. The way she bled. The nightmare of that memory haunted her. Forced her to suffer through every painful second of that night. Every broken bone. Every tear in her flesh until the teeth scored her skin. Then, and only then, would she wake, paralyzed by fear, the sting still coating her throat.

I watch them through my window. They are almost obscured by the big white van parked in the drive. But I can just about see the woman, directing the men as they lug furniture into the house. She’s smiling. Her husband walks over and slips an arm around her. They hug for a second. There’s a big grin on his face too. Well, I guess they would be happy, wouldn’t they? Moving into a lovely new home in a leafy neighbourhood, a stone’s throw from the river. Their little girl runs over and clutches the woman’s leg with one arm. The other arm is pulling along a rainbow-coloured mini suitcase. They stand for a moment, picture-postcard perfect, before the woman pulls away and starts waving her arms at their movers. Seeing that little family unit, I feel more alone than ever, my nose pressed against a glass door that won’t open. They thought they were going to have an idyllic life in their new house, watching their daughter grow up happy and contented. I take one last look, before forcing myself to turn away. Should have been me.

Therapy was supposed to help Elena Drake trust her mind. Instead, someone is teaching her to doubt it. When Elena comes home to find her deadbolt unlocked, her lamp on, and her appointment book moved, she knows someone has been inside her apartment. Then Elena finds the Polaroid on her pillow—a photo of herself asleep in her own bed. Everyone tells her there must be another explanation.

There are three of us lined up in a row. Two of us will stay. One of us will go.