I woke up at seven, reached for my phone, and tried to say good morning to my mother. Nothing came out. I tried again, but my mouth wouldn’t open. When I touched my lips, I felt something cold and metallic.

I rushed to the bathroom mirror and nearly slipped on the rug. My mouth had been wired shut with tiny silver braces. I stared at my reflection, wondering whether I was still dreaming. Then I pinched my arm. Unfortunately, I was very much awake.

I ran downstairs and found my mother making tea. She turned around, took one look at me, and dropped her spoon.

For a moment, she looked genuinely concerned. Then she started laughing.

I tried to explain what had happened, but all I managed was a muffled noise that sounded like a kettle struggling to boil. My mother handed me a notebook, apparently deciding that conversation was no longer an option.

I wrote down every question I could think of, starting with who had done this and ending with a rather angry demand to be taken to a doctor.

Then I noticed a folded piece of paper beside my bedroom door. It had been slipped underneath during the night.

The message was written in familiar handwriting:

You talk in your sleep. Last night, you revealed everyone’s secrets. Consider this a warning.

I stopped writing.

From the living room came my father’s voice. “Did she find the note?”

My brother burst into laughter.

I wanted to scream, but my mouth remained firmly shut. And judging by the way my family suddenly became very interested in their tea, I had a feeling this was going to be a very long day.

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