Thirty meters of frozen time and my two-year-old daughter hyperventilating because she'd accidentally stopped reality during a tantrum about bedtime, and I had maybe five minutes before the freeze either collapsed on its own or got worse because Hope's emotional control was nonexistent right now.
"Okay." I kept my voice steady even though everything in me was screaming. "Okay, Hope. Look at me. Just at me."
Her eyes—cycling through all four colors so fast they were basically strobing—locked on mine and I felt the maternal bond pulse with her panic.
"You froze time." Simple statement. Calm. "It was an accident. Accidents happen. Now we're going to unfreeze it. Together."
"I don't know how!" Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean to do it! I can't—I can't feel how to stop it!"
Can't feel how to stop it. Right. Because she'd never frozen time during emotional distress before. Every other freeze had been intentional, controlled, something she could release at will.
