“You never fight me for them.”

Inside the house she felt better. There was space to move, even in the entryway, and it was familiar. Home. The TV was on in the den, and canned audience laughter from the sitcom rerun their parents were watching carried down the hall. A hint of garlic laced the air, along with roasted chicken.

“I think I’m fine now,” she said, right before a black-and-silver German shepherd barreled past her legs on his way to Henry.

“You kids have fun?” Their dad came into the hall holding an empty snack bowl. Cassandra looked at Henry. When he looked away first, she knew he wouldn’t say anything.

“Nobody better smell like beer.” Her father stopped short in front of them and scrutinized their faces. He adjusted his glasses and leaned closer to give her face a sniff.

“Dad.”

“Cassandra smells like beer.”

“A glass and a half. Over like three hours. I swear.”

He gave her the eye and grilled everyone else. They came up clean.

“Sixteen-year-old girls don’t need beer,” her dad said, but it was a tired lecture. He’d been talking to them about drinking responsibly since they were thirteen. “You might be grounded. I’m going to talk to your mother.” He reached a long arm into the kitchen and set the empty bowl on the counter. “Honey,” he called. “The kids are hammered!”

“What?!”

“Kidding, dear.” He smiled, but when he raised a finger his voice was stern. “I am going to talk to your mother.” He turned away back down the hall. “You kids just be careful.”

* * *

Aidan insisted she get into bed, so she sat, still dressed in jeans and her blue cardigan, her blankets pulled up to her waist and the big black-and-silver dog stretched along one side. Andie sat on the edge of the bed and scratched his ears.

“Can’t believe Henry let you borrow Lux,” she said. “He must think you’re dying.”

Cassandra stroked the dog’s furred shoulder, and Lux tilted his head toward her and whined. He’d stay with her until she fell asleep, then sneak out of her room to go crawl in with Henry. Despite being adopted as a family dog, he’d been Henry’s from the start.

Andie stood up. “Listen, I’ll call you after I’m done at the nursery tomorrow. You need a ride home, Aidan?”

“I can walk.”

Andie waved, and they listened to her footsteps tramp down the stairs. There was a short, muffled exchange with Cassandra’s parents, and a few seconds later, the front door opened and closed. Lux’s ears pricked when she started her car. For a few deep breaths it was silent, and Cassandra sat in her bed, cuddled into her blue comforter. Whatever it was she’d thought she’d seen, it wasn’t real. Feathers didn’t sprout from people like leaves. They didn’t slice through a body and tear them up from the inside out. And Aidan was fine.

“So,” Cassandra said hesitantly. “Did I make a scene?”

Aidan shrugged from the foot of the bed, where he lay reclined on one elbow.

“A little. Sam said it was a nice diversionary tactic from Casey and Matt.”

Cassandra smiled. It was what she expected. Kincade was full of nice, nonbigoted people. She’d been a little strange all her life, but no one ever made her feel it. When she went back to school on Monday, a few would ask how she was doing, whether she was okay, and when she said she was fine, they’d talk about something else. It seemed strange sometimes, like something was in the water.

It feels like a shield, she thought, but didn’t know why she thought that.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

“Mmm-hmm.” In a minute or so. She wished they were somewhere else, at the kitchen table, maybe, or in the den had her parents not been in it. Her room seemed suddenly childish, with its white dresser and vanity and gauzy blue curtains. There was a jewelry box on the vanity that played music; her mother had gotten it for her when she was six. She wanted to throw it out the window.

None of this is mine.

“Cassandra?”

“You’re not going to believe me,” she said, and he gave her a look. Of course he would believe her. He always did.

“I saw you, standing in front of me. Except you weren’t right. There were cuts—wounds—and there were feathers coming out of them.”

“Feathers?”

“Everywhere. Brown and white. Like they were slicing through you somehow. Even through your tongue and”—she made a face—“under your fingernails.”