Ginger conjured a river. A cool, dark river. The bottoms of her feet tingled, slipping over smooth rock in the virtual riverbed. She lowered her body into the wetness. Frightened river fish darted between her legs. The chaotic chirping of birds resonated through the boughs of the trees blanketing her insular sanctum. She closed her eyes and listened, carefully, until she heard the furtive fluttering of fragile wings.

Everything echoed, even her breath.

The air became heavier and heavier. Anxiety swelling, she started to sing. She sang and she sang, and she sang. Her breath caught in her throat when she heard hushed whispers.

Ginger opened her eyes. They surrounded her, eight curious-eyed but coltishly wary children.

“Who are you?”

Their voices harmonized as they mouthed the same words together.