In the back of the ambulance, her sister has been taken over by a ghost. Their mom gets as strong as a superhero and holds her down. Amy has no idea what is happening. A few minutes ago she was still inside a bubble, organizing numbers, and now her sister has been taken over by a ghost. Amy had always assumed it would be fun to ride in an ambulance or a fire truck or a police car because you would get to go fast and break all the rules and not stop at any lights. But everything is wrong now. Zoe throws up but doesn’t know she’s throwing up, so the throw-up just drips down her chin and onto the lavender-colored dress that used to be Amy’s that they’d gotten from a friend, and the lady who works for the ambulance mops it off her, but Amy fears that the towel will scratch her sister’s face.
Zoe’s eyes, always big and brown and sparkly as the campfire, are white. Her body jerks to one side at a rhythm that is not a human rhythm. Amy screams, Zoe, Zoe, Zoe, but Zoe isn’t there. Their mom gets angry and says to shut up because she’s making everything worse. Then every fiber of Amy’s body screams, in silence. Zoe, Zoe, Zoe.