She sits down on her bed, breathing heavily. She holds her hand to her cheek, to make sure she still exists.

When she realizes she is still gripping the glass tube, she throws it on her bed as if it is burning her hand. She stares at it from a safe distance for a few moments. Then she lifts it up with just two fingers and gingerly places it on her desk.

When she was little, she used to have nightmares about monsters in the closet, their outlines barely visible through the closet doors to her half-closed sleepy eyes, so she always closed the closet door. Now she worries she is having a very different sort of nightmare. She throws one of her shirts on top of the glass so she doesn't have to see its weird shape as she sleeps, which she knows she must do now, even though she doesn't feel particularly tired.

It takes a few minutes of lying on her bed in thought, but Zoe finally arrives at what frightens her so much about the glass:

She is not sure who pulled the glass away from her eye—her, or the girl she had seen in the glass's vision.

She sleeps.