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inside there.”
    I unfolded the quilt and something slid out onto the ground. It was bright red.
    When I picked it up, the fabric unraveled like liquid, no wrinkles or folds. It was a cloak. A red cloak with a hood, just like the one Granny wore in the little painting.
    “It was mine when I was your age,” said Granny. “Put it on.”
    I hesitated.
    “Go on. It won’t bite you.”
    I wasn’t so sure. I draped the cloak loosely over my shoulders. Granny motioned for me to come to her, and with trembling hands she fastened the clasp at my chest and pulled the hood over my head.
    “Let me look at you,” said Granny. “Ah, you look just like me when I was a girl.”
    I shifted uncomfortably.
    “It’s almost as if I’m young again, seeing you in that old thing. I had suitors coming through the front door before I could shove the last one out the back. My sister, Snow, had a matching white cloak, of course, and we wore them everywhere we went. Everyone called us Snow White and Rose Red.”
    Granny’s sister, Snow, was the one who married the bear—not to be confused with the princess Snow White, who lived with dwarves while hiding from an evil queen. That Snow White had lived over two hundred years ago, but her name was a popular one. Anyone named Snow or Snow White had a destiny that usually involved dwarves or apples or sleeping curses. You never knew what you were going to get.
    “We wore our cloaks wherever we went,” said Granny. “We believed they were magic.”
    I stiffened. I wanted the cloak off me. “What kind of magic?”
    But she didn’t answer my question, not directly. “Red is a magical color. Powerful. When you were born, I knew that you were Red. I knew you had powerful magic in you.”
    I pulled at the cloak. It felt hot and suffocating.
    “Don’t take it off,” said Granny. “It’s going to get cold soon.”
    “It’s summer,” I said. “And it’s very warm in here.”
    She closed her eyes and sniffed. “I can smell the cold coming.”
    “Your nose has always been a little off compared to the rest of your senses. It’s too small.” I tried to laugh at the joke, but it didn’t come out right. Nothing felt right. Not this red cloak. Not this frail and fevered Granny. Not the world.
    “Red.” Granny clasped my hand. “Don’t be afraid.”
    “I’m not afraid,” I lied. “You just need to rest, and you need some medicine. One of your potions should make you better in an instant. Isn’t there anything else you can take besides your Curious Cure-All?” I walked to the cupboard and started to rummage again. I found a clay pot full of greenish-brown goop. It smelled ghastly, but those were usually the potions that did the best curing. “How about this one?”
    “Troll droppings. That will certainly finish me off,” she said.
    I replaced the pot and washed my hands. Granny coughed some more. It got worse each time.
    “It’s all right, Red,” she croaked. “Sometimes we just need to let nature take its course.”
    “And sometimes we need to help it along with a little magic. You always say that.”
    “Yes, but magic can’t help everything. You always say that.”
    “But you’re very sick. Don’t you want to get better?”
    “No one lives forever,” said Granny.
    “Stop avoiding the question. Don’t you want to get better?”
    “Stop avoiding the truth.” Granny grasped me by the arm, and the sudden firmness of her grip startled me more than her recent frailty.
    “Everybody dies, Red,” said Granny. “One way or another, everybody dies.”
    “I know,” I said, but the words were thick in my mouth. They felt wrong. It wasn’t at all like Granny to speak of death. She was magic, full of power and life. She couldn’t be dying.
    And yet the words echoed in my mind, lashing me with barbed whips.
    Everybody dies.
    Granny drifted to sleep. Her breathing was labored and raspy. My own breathing grew short and heavy. My throat swelled. My eyes burned. I couldn’t