"Honey, sit still," My mother admonished, fussing over my brown curls.

"I am, Momma!" I sighed, letting my hands drop on my lap. Today, I didn't have to go to school, though, so I was happy enough. Instead, Momma was bringing me into her bank, which was decidedly better than the former.

"And remember, if anyone talks to you—"

"Don't answer," I giggled, knowing how much I sounded like a robot.

"And why won't you answer?" She quickly brushed my hair out for the millionth time this morning.

"'Cause, they could be Crazies," I replied automatically, feeling shivers grow over my spine, twining up and down like constantly growing vines and sapping away the sense of security any kindergartener should have. Not here though, and certainly not me.

"Because, darling," Momma was quick to rectify me, then just as quickly continued with her array of questions. "Now, how do we tell the difference between us and them?"

"Trick question!" I squealed, bouncing in my seat, forcing an irritated sigh from Momma. "You can't tell the difference. They look just like us, and that's why we have to be extra careful."

"Anyone can be a Crazie, yes, so fear and suspect everyone. Even your closest friends." She finished her braiding job and spun me 'round in my seat so I could see myself. I was looking at my mirror image—small tan face, big blue eyes and dark brown almost ebony hair that was neatly braided with fake flowers throughout the curls.

"What if I'm a Crazie?" I asked quietly as the question popped into my mind, feeling the mood change as soon as the words were out. If anyone can be a Crazie, can't I be one? Then Momma'd have to fear me, and I would hardly be able to bear that. She'd hate me!

"Oh, dear!" Momma gasped. "No, no, Freya! That could never happen. We have close to no Crazie blood in our family. Your great-great-great uncle was only one in our timeline to recently have it, and he was executed. They didn't have the help they do now."

"What if it skipped generations, like it did with Rose?" I fretted, playing with one of the flowers in my hair.

"Honey, Freya—Rosy was a bit of a special case. Usually, symptoms are seen in adolescents and it can be treated with medications and supervision. She was ninety-two; old and too weak for treatment. But still, some people hide their crazy, and one day they just explode. But it would be different if you were one of the Crazie, if course. We have the money, so the proper treatment wouldn't be hard to get."

"Oh," I glanced up at Momma. Stress lines showed over her worried face, clear as day. I had Momma's eyes, but not her shiny blond hair. She was pretty, and I wished I had her girly, straight strawberry blond locks. It'd be a lot easier for her to do my hair if it wasn't always so unruly.

"Promise me you'll do good?" Momma extended a pinky finger. I immediately wrapped my smaller pinky around hers, shaking once.

"Promise."

It was an easy thing to say, that one word. Easy to say but not so easy to keep, as I would soon learn.