My mother screamed, and every woman in the kitchen came running.

One of my aunts crossed herself.

Another already had her phone out, dialing for an ambulance.

My sister backed away until her spine hit the far wall and stayed there, one hand at her throat, at my necklace.

And Christopher did not scream, or cry out, or sob with relief the way a husband would.

He stood over me and looked down into my open eyes with no relief in his face at all — only a cold, working calculation, a man doing math in a burning building.

“It’s catalepsy,” he announced to the room, loud and authoritative, taking control of the story the way he took control of everything.