“I remember all of it,” Stacy volunteered. Since that day, Stacy had abandoned her idea that by not talking about things, you could keep them from being real. She told the story to anyone who listened, and she told Dr. Mitchell everything—from getting up that morning, to taking the bus downtown, to wondering where their mom was, to the crazy boys— “…and then the police took us—”
“But before that,” Jodi interrupted, “there was the tattooed lady.”
Dr. Mitchell looked to Jodi, his glasses glinting silver. “Who was that?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Haltingly, Jodi told him about the vision she had shared with the tattooed lady. She kept her eyes on a dark spot on the beige carpet, not letting go of Stacy’s hand, even though she knew her sister wanted to pull away.
“I see,” Dr. Mitchell said when she finished. “And have you had any more, as you call them, visions?”
Jodi shook her head, keeping her eyes trained on the dark brown spot.
“It’s okay if you have, Jodi. I need to know. In order to help you.”
Help me, Jodi thought. Please.