6 OPHELIA CLARK
October 12
After only three and a half hours of sleep, I could barely function. I was so anxious it took me three tries to get my head through the right hole in my T-shirt. I pulled it on and stared at myself in my closet door mirror. With my finger, I traced over the spot on my chest where the burst of blood kept appearing over and over in my shadow dream, and I shuddered.
“I’m heading off to work, honey. Your lunch is in the fridge,” Mom called out as she headed for the front door.
“Thanks,” I shouted from my bedroom, wondering if I’d regret it if that was the last thing I’d said to her. The rest of my morning routine was a blur.
I slipped my backpack over my shoulder and started walking to school, hanging my head low, feeling like it was full of sand. Trudging along
