Rain was peeing down over Ipswich, Massachusetts. It was the kind of rain that fell almost silently, barely noticeable until you were soaked. Katie sighed. It was like being back in England – perhaps the rain was following her. The way her luck was going, she wouldn't be surprised. She'd lived all her life in Lancashire, England, as had all her family before her for hundreds of years – centuries, even. So why, she thought furiously, why did James suddenly have to whisk her off to this stupidly enormous country which, let's face it, most of its population didn't even originally come from in the first place. She huffed silently for a while, her breath clouding up the window of her Uncle James' jeep. He was not really her uncle – just a close friend of her parents'. When they had been alive, that is. He was in his early thirties, with pale brown eyes and hair – the kind of man that seemed to blend into the background like a chameleon. He glanced round at her as they sped along the highway.

'Katie?' he paused, waiting for a response, but Katie continued to stare glumly at the grey sky. 'Come on Katie – cheer up! I know you're set against this, but don't you see? This could be a new start. After – after your auntie died I lost it a bit, but this time we can do it right. This is a nice community, and a good school. I'm sure you'll like it here, once you get used to it. I know it's a bit far from ho-'

'A bit far!' burst Katie. 'How much further could we get? I don't want to live in stupid America! I liked it where we were! Just because you're too scared of living there without Elizabeth! Just because-'

'Katherine Isobel Hewitt!' James shouted, turning towards her, 'don't you dare insult me like-'

'WATCH OUT FOR THAT TRUCK!'

There was a sudden thud, and the ear-splitting sound of screeching brakes and splintering glass. James swore. Katie screamed and raised her arms automatically to protect her face. For a split second she could feel the glass pouring over her like water. And then it was gone. There was only the quiet hum of the car engine, and the sound of James' sharp breathing. Katie slowly lowered her arms. It was as if they were on a film that had jumped forwards a few seconds. The car was trundling along innocently: there was no wreckage, bits of broken metal, or dead people. The windscreen wasn't even scratched.

Katie span around in her seat; sure enough, the truck still sat there, parked halfway out onto the freeway. It, too, was looking conspicuously undamaged. Katie faced forward, stunned. What had just happened? She looked at her uncle questioningly, but he was taking no more chances – his eyes were glued to the road.

'What just-?' ventured Katie. James did not take his eyes from the road – he looked shell-shocked.

'Nothing. We nearly hit a truck, but I swerved in time and we got round it.'

Katie frowned. 'But I heard us hit it…I felt us hit it…'

'No!' her uncle took a deep breath and continued. 'No, you didn't. It was a trick of the mind, that's all. You expected us to crash, and so your brain imagined that it actually happened. I… heard that that can happen sometimes.' He fell silent, a strange, wild expression on his face. Obviously the discussion was closed. Katie tried desperately to remember. She was sure she had felt the crash – nothing she could have imagined could have seemed that real. She had felt the glass on her skin. So why was she alive? It didn't make sense.

No-one spoke for the rest of the journey. They pulled up outside a crumbling old house to the south of Massachusetts. Katie looked up at it through the drizzle. It had obviously been quite a grand place, with three stories and little balconies outside the first floor windows. But the paint on the balconies was peeling and bubbled with age and damp, and the roof had several tiles missing. The removal vans had already arrived, and were waiting for further instructions. James got out and went over to them, without a word to Katie. She sighed once again and reached out to open the door. Suddenly she froze, staring down at her hand. It was covered in tiny cuts.