The children sat quietly, their eyes down, their hands in their laps. I said, “Mrs. Faillard tells me that you do not sleep. That you keep sharpened knives under your mattresses and forks under your pillows.”
Laurence smirked. “Only Berenice keeps a fork,” he said.
Berenice seemed to withdraw farther into herself. She whispered something I could not hear.
“What did you say, Berenice?” I asked in a voice that was almost as quiet.
Cyrus said, “She say the devils are coming. And no one believes us.” His voice was as flat as ice on a Montana lake.