“Of course, yeah. Go. Good to see you.” I wave him away and turn back to the drinking fountain.

“And—” he says in a smiley, awkward voice. “And, um, I’m not actually going to be working Valentine’s Day anyway. I’ll be at the dance. So, you know, whatever that thing is you’re worried about, well, you don’t need to worry anymore, ’cause it’s cool.”

I stare at the stream of water in front of me, not thinking about anything except the fact that this is my last good-bye with him, and it sucks. I don’t look at him. “Okay, great.”

He hesitates and then starts walking away, and I’m cursing myself because this isn’t how I want it to end. Not like this at all. These words of sheer idiocy cannot be our last words.

I let go of the spigot and stand up. “Hey, Sawyer?”

He stops and turns back, and the fake shit is gone from his face. “Yeah?”

I press my lips together and thread my fingers, bringing my hands up to my chest nervously, and then I smile while everything breaks inside. “It’s okay,” I say, nodding, and I can feel my bottom lip quivering anyway. “It’s okay that you don’t believe me. I’ll leave you alone now. I really do love you, like I said the other . . . that one time. The other day. I just want you to know that.”

He stands there, his face stricken and real, and falling. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and then closes it again, and pain I’ve never seen before washes across it. He nods once, says, “Okay, thanks,” and then he turns away and walks slowly toward the cafeteria, ripping his fingers through his hair as he goes.

Thirty

When he’s out of sight, I go the other way on numb, stupid feet, all the way to my locker, and I stand there not knowing what to do with myself now. I open a book and there are no words, only scenes screaming at me. There’s nothing I can do today anymore. I have to get out of here. I have to go away. I can’t see him again.

There are two periods left in my day, and I will spend them in the meatball truck, waiting for Rowan to come. That’s the only thing I can think of doing right now.

I grab my books like I always do on Fridays, as if I’m going to get any studying done this weekend, and head out to the truck. There’s a teacher on rat patrol at the entrance, and I walk right by him. “Orthodontist appointment,” I say, even though I got my braces off two years ago. Worked like a charm then, and it does now, too. He doesn’t even try to stop me.

When I push through the door, it’s snowing.

I walk to the truck, the cold flakes kissing my cheeks and making my eyelashes heavy. This is the beginning of the snow that I see in the vision, I think. The beginning of the end. Thirty hours to go. I get into the truck and start it up, letting it run for a few minutes to get some heat going, sit back to wait for the weather report on the radio, and close my eyes to figure out how the hell I’m going to shut that restaurant down and save nine people’s lives.

And then my eyes spring open, and it finally hits me, what Sawyer said. He said he’s not going to be there. He’s going to the dance.

He’s going to the fucking dance, and he’s not going to be at Angotti’s.

So how the heck is he ending up in a body bag? Does he come home for some reason that he doesn’t expect? Does he get a frantic call and return to the restaurant, and something happens after? Does he go in to save someone and die that way?

“Oh. My. Fucking. Dogs!” I yell, and pound the steering wheel. “What the hell is going on? Why can’t you just tell me what’s happening? Tell me what to do, whoever, whatever, you are! Ugh!” I slam my body back into the seat and scream at the top of my lungs, way back here in the last row of the parking lot, where no one can hear me.

Maybe I am insane.

Maybe I really am.

Maybe this vision means nothing at all, except that I am losing it.

Around and around we go again. Again. Again.

I don’t have time for this.

• • •

As the snow builds up on my windshield faster than it can melt, things grow cold and dusky inside my truck, and the vision plays out more clearly on the glass. Teeth chattering, I start up the truck again, flip the wipers on, and whisk the snow away, realizing it’s coming down majorly hard right now. So hard that I wonder aloud, “If this doesn’t stop, is it going to be too much?” A few minutes later the weather report is in—a blizzard watch, and it calls for twelve to eighteen inches in the greater Chicago area over the next twelve hours.

“Jeez,” I mutter. I’ve seen my share of snowstorms, and one foot of snow is actually way more than a foot of snow when it has to be removed from half the city and put into the other half. If this pace keeps up, the fire hydrant will be covered in the first plowing.

The facts race through my head. Too much snow. Sawyer not working. Nothing’s adding up right to fit the vision. Maybe I do need to be committed to a hospital, I think for the millionth time. I give up on it as Rowan trudges through the snow and gets into the truck.

“You’re here early,” she says.

I put the truck in drive and hit the gas, trying to beat the rush of students. “Yep.”

Rowan just looks at me, and then she says earnestly, “What’s wrong with you, Jules? What have you really been doing?”

I glance over at her, and she looks scared for me.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” I turn the corner and then peek at her again. “Really.” She doesn’t say anything, so I reach over and pinch her kneecap, which she hates. And then I grin at her. “Seriously, kid. I’m fine. Things are really kind of bizarro world right now. Mom and Dad are cracking down on me for dumb stuff, but I messed up, too, by leaving customers without telling anybody, and that was dumb of me. And nice of you to try to cover, even though it didn’t work. But other than that, we’re all fine. ’Kay?”