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She stretches out her hand. It shifts, becomes more solid, then the bones and muscles and veins glimmer below her skin again. She pulls it back.

“What are you?” I ask in a hushed whisper.

“Dead,” she says, with a harsh laugh. “Which I suppose doesn’t clarify things much here.”

“You’re a—ghost?”

“Yes. I died a long way from here.” I turn to face her now. She smiles a little, sad. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long. It’s harder,here. It’s not just the daylight. It’s the road. I don’t belong, and it knows it. It’s easier to hide from it at night. I think I’m safe for a little while, though. And we needed to talk.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why are you here? Why are you—are you helping us? Or—”

“I died—I was killed—and then I woke up,” she says. “And I didn’t know where I was or what I was supposed to be doing, but I found the road. Or it found me. It catches things. Lost things. Like me.”

“Like the creatures in the house?” I ask.

“A bit like that. Though I’m not as lost as they are. I’ve got a good hold on who I am. So far, at least. It might last. Might not. The point is, while I was wandering the road in those first few days after I died, I found your sister.”

“Becca. She didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t show myself. I didn’t know how to hide from the road, not yet, and for someone—something—like me, if you draw its notice—well. Once the road notices you, you start to become part of it. You lose the ability to leave. So I only watched.

“Becca talked to herself sometimes. She talked to you, too. And I knew that you would come, eventually, because you’re her sister and that’s what sisters do. I brought you the notebook.” I frown, thinking of Isaac.She left you a map.I thought he’d been talking about Becca. He must have gotten them confused, his mind too addled by the road to distinguish the living girl and the dead one. Miranda continues. “I helped, what little I could without the road noticing me. Without her noticing me.”

“Without Becca noticing you?” I ask, confused.

She shakes her head. “Think, Sara. You’re getting so close to her now. This might be the last chance you have to remember.”

“Remember? I...” I look away. There’s something at the back of my mind. A dream I had, maybe. The memory of a voice whispering in my ear.Find me.Not Becca. “Lucy,” I say. “I didn’t—I didn’t come here for Becca, did I?”

“Of course you did,” she says. “You would carve through a hundred worlds to find your sister. She used that love, Sara, but it was real.”

“I was having dreams about Lucy,” I say. “I could hear her calling me. Telling me to find her. I can still hear her. But I can’t—” I shudder.Find me, a soft voice whispers, and I feel the sensation of fingertips dragging over the backs of my hands. “Why can’t I remember?”

“Places like this do strange things to memory. Make it malleable. There are things that take advantage. The echoes took Nick from you.” The name means nothing to me; it slides away. “They’re hungry, bitter things, but their motives are simple, at least. What she’s doing is more complex.”

“And what is that?”

“She’s altering your memories, but she’s also making you... open,” Miranda says. “Vulnerable. She needs you, you see. To escape this place. She’s greedy for life. She’ll take yours if she can.”

“Take mine? How... What...”

“Listen. I will tell you as plainly as I can,” Miranda says. “Since you first started having the dreams, she’s been shaping your mind and your memory. Because if you know what sheis and what she wants, you’ll try to stop her. She’ll hide every memory you might use against her. She’ll hide this one, too, because I’ve told you what she’s doing. And if you can’t remember, you can’t fight her.”

“Help me, then,” I say, desperate. I can feel fingernails of fear against my throat; I know Miranda is right.

“We don’t have much time. The eyes of the road are on me,” Miranda says. “And once you cross the water, I won’t be able to follow.”

“Then how do I stop her?” I ask, the only question that seems to matter.

“I don’t know,” Miranda says sadly. “I don’t even know if you can. But if you can remember, maybe you have a chance. I can’t give you your memories back, but I can help you make a map back to this moment. And if you can remember this, remember what she is and what she’s doing, maybe you can find the rest of the memories she’s hiding. Find the truth.”

“A map?”

“A trick,” she says. “A trail of memories so inconsequential she won’t think to erase them. If you can tie those memories to this conversation, it might be enough to uncover it.”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Something small, but concrete. A pattern you can remember,” Miranda says. “It could be anything. A color. A phrase you’ve heard along the way. It can be anything, as long as you remember it. And as long as she won’t think to destroy it.”