“Hannah, please don’t go,” Mary begs her, clinging to her leg as tightly as her nine-year-old arms can muster. Her wet face presses into the back of Hannah’s leg as Hannah tugs her along on her way to the front door.

“Mary,” Hannah says, finally stopping to pry her little sister off her leg. Her voice is patient as she peels her sister’s fighting hands off her leg. “Mary, lovebug, I have to go, ...

It was raining that night. She could hear the movement of feet on the ground, the crunching of sticks, the sounds of panting and crying, shouting and swearing. All of these sounds ran clearly through her mind, but she saw nothing—she could feel nothing. It was almost like she was a corpse, slung over someone’s shoulder, getting ready for burial.

But she wasn’t dead. Not yet.

She was hardly bre...