I’m standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, when I hear her scream.

My knees lock and I go suddenly upright, drawing in a sharp breath. I glance swiftly up from the hot, soapy water in the sink, losing my grip on a plate that slips from my wet hands and into the basin. Water splashes.

I stand there, rooted to the earth, listening in vain for the anguished sound to come again, or for there to be something else, something that explains it, like tires skidding, the squeal of car brakes, the resident German shepherd (the one that Cass and Mae are both afraid of) barking, or Emily’s voice calling out to see if Mae is okay. But there’s nothing, only silence, which worries me as much as the scream.

Just moments ago, my niece Mae was here, at our little rental cottage. She and Cass had a sleepover last night, sleeping on the double bed under the slanted eaves of the loft, staying up too late watching Disney movies on DVD and gabbing about whatever ten-year-olds gab about. I fell asleep before they did, waking around three in the morning to check on them and finding them both asleep with the TV still on.

Before Mae left to go back to her own cottage, they stood at the front door, giggling and saying goodbye with their sticky, syrupy faces and hands. I stood in the adjoining kitchen, staring out at them, admiring their friendship. Cass and Mae are much more than cousins; they’re best friends, like sisters even. After Mae was gone, I got busy cleaning the small kitchen, asking Cass to go straighten up from their sleepover, and she had, disappearing to the upstairs loft, where the sound of Mae’s scream doesn’t reach.