Grace stirred in the carrier, letting out a soft, whimpering cough like crinkling paper.

Her eyelids fluttered open, showing irises of stormy gray-blue — an exact mirror of Preston’s own.

He inhaled sharply and staggered back as if he’d been shot. “She’s alive. My God, Hannah, she’s real.”

“She’s real,” I said, my tone hardening. “And she’s dying, Preston.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room.

His face went from pale to ashen. “What are you talking about?”