“Sara,” Jeremy said, slowly, softly. “Put down the knife.”

“You think I’m crazy. They all think I’m crazy. They always do,” she whimpered. The blood was dripping freely down her arm now, scattering its crimson droplets on the pristine white tiles. “They smile at me, and they tell me they believe me, and then the moment they leave, they laugh at me and call me a nutcase.” She stabbed the point of the bloody knife into the wall, driving it into the painted particle board. “You’re the same, Jeremy. Admit it.”

“I. . . I don’t think you’re crazy, Sara,” Jeremy said, inching towards the terrified girl. “I think you’re bleeding. I think you’re hurt, and I’m afraid you’re going to die from loss of blood.”

“You do think I’m crazy.” Sara smiled, stabbing the point of the knife into the wall again and again. “It’s okay, Jeremy. It’s okay if you think I’m crazy. Sometimes, even I think I’m not quite sane anymore.”

She laughed, long and loud, a crazed, manic laugh like a hyena crying out in the scarlet twilight.