I haven't slept. Every time I close my eyes, I see it again—the thing with too many teeth and not enough face, the way it moved through the trees like smoke, the way my mother screamed my father's name.

The Minamoto children are still asleep in their futons across the room. The older one—Teru, I think—curled on his side with the precision of someone who's practiced being still. The younger one, Kou, has kicked off his blanket and sprawled starfish-style, mouth slightly open, one fist clutching the edge of his pillow like it might try to escape.

They saved me. Their father saved me.

The door slides open with a soft whisper, and a woman with kind eyes and an apron over a kimono kneels in the doorway. She doesn't startle at seeing me awake, just offers a small smile.