The room Hopper gave us was small—two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, blankets mismatched, the faint smell of pine and dust. It felt safer than the lab ever had, but not safe enough to stop the thoughts.

Jane sat on her bed, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. A cassette player hummed softly between us, static filling the silence.

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’m going to try again.”

“Be careful.” She teased, giggling as she settled down on her bed across the room.

I reached out with my mind, past the walls, past the woods, letting the noise settle. Hopper’s thoughts floated from the living room, easy, and then I turned back toward her.

This time, it worked.

Her mind opened like a door I didn’t mean to walk through. Memories of the lab, the experiments—of her mother. And then they switched to him.

—Mike’s laugh— —his hand in hers— —the way he said her name like it mattered—

My chest tightened. The images slammed into me all at once, sharp and bright and not meant for me.

I gasped and yanked myself back, my hands curling into fists as I pulled the makeshift eye mask off.

Jane’s eyes snapped open. “What did you see?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly, staring at the floor.

She tilted her head, studying me. “You’re lying.”

“I wasn’t ready,” I muttered, the lie bitter on my tongue. “I shouldn’t have tried.”

The room felt colder. The static from the cassette turned unbearable and I was practically seething. An unfamiliar feeling gnawed at my insides, one I couldn’t name and that terrified me more than anything ever had.