“Yeah,” I say. “I mean no, I can’t. Whoever has the vision curse is going to have to wait.” I can’t believe I’m saying that, but that’s just how it is right now.

“I figured. You don’t mind if I just try to keep things moving while you handle your family stuff, do you? I’m just . . . getting a little anxious about it.”

I frown at the ground. I want him with me. It’s selfish, I know. “Yeah,” I say. “Go.” I try to sound like I really mean it. Because I should really mean it. Just because my whole life burned up doesn’t lessen my responsibility for this vision thing. “I wish we knew how to stop the visions,” I say.

Sawyer looks at me. “Do you? Because if we stop it, chances are more people will die.”

“Yeah.” I scrape the toe of my new used shoe along the asphalt. “I guess I’m just full.”

He seems to know what I mean by “full,” even though I’m not quite sure myself. Full of shock, full of sadness, full of stress. Too full to deal with the vision. He brushes my hair from my shoulder and caresses my cheek like his hand belongs there. “It’s okay. I’ll keep searching.” He lifts my chin and puts his soft, cool lips on mine.

And then he’s gone, and I’m in the food truck with my siblings, riding to Aunt Mary’s. I lean my head against the window as we pass the Jose Cuervo billboard, which looks just as it should.

• • •

When we walk into Aunt Mary’s breezeway, I can hear the cousins running around, arguing. Trey presses his eyelids shut and shakes his head slowly. Rowan flashes an annoyed look. We have nowhere to hide, and this is getting old. Our home is the living room. I try to be thankful for Aunt Mary and Uncle Vito for opening up their house to us, and for keeping their kids mostly out of the living room so we can feel like we have someplace to call our own, but it’s hard.

We venture up the two steps into the main part of the house and around the corner into the kitchen and see a stranger sitting at the table with Mom and Dad. Mom’s lips are pressed together so firmly that they’re gray, and Dad is staring straight ahead, a vacant look in his eyes. It’s frightening.

“What happened?” Trey asks them above the noise of the cousins.

Mom snaps her chin toward us. She looks right through us and shakes her head ever so slightly. Dad doesn’t blink.

I stare, and then I grab Trey and Rowan by the elbows and push them toward the living room.

“What the hell,” Trey mutters.

“No idea,” I say.

“It looked bad,” Rowan says.

Later, when we’re trying to do our homework, I look out the window and see Dad driving off in the delivery car. Mom comes into the living room, fists clenched like she’s going to lose it. She looks at us, and we look at her, and she says, “They believe the fire began upstairs, not in the restaurant.”

My eyes widen. Nobody says anything, waiting for Mom to continue.

She does. Her voice is low. “It looks like it started from a worn extension cord in the living room next to some of Dad’s . . . stuff.”

My heart leaps to my throat.

“With all the hoards of newspapers and books and recipes,” she continues, her voice straining, “well . . . there was no chance of saving anything.”

I drop my homework and stand up, Trey and Rowan right behind me, and we wrap our arms around our mom. Her tears fall now, and a groan from deep inside her chokes its way out in a coughing sob like I’ve never heard before. I glance at Trey, and his eyes are as scared as I think mine must be.

Mom cries for a minute, and then she sniffs and wipes her eyes with her sleeve and tries to laugh, embarrassed for losing it in front of us, I guess.

“We’re sorry, Mom,” Rowan says.

“He feels just terrible.” Mom’s laugh disappears. She shakes her head. “He walked out in a daze. I don’t know where he’s going.” She lets out a shuddering breath and runs her index fingers under her eyes, absently checking for mascara smudges, and for a split second, in her vulnerability she reminds me of Rowan.

“Do you want me to go find him?” Trey asks.

Mom nods. Her voice cracks when she says, “I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Five things I want to say right now:

1. He’s a douche for making you worry.

2. Maybe it would be best if he does just go kill himself, so we can get on with our lives.

3. Okay, those are the only two things I can think of, but dammit, I’m pissed.

4. And now I remember why I don’t love him anymore.

5. Because I can’t.

Twelve

Rowan stays with Mom, and I go with Trey to find Dad.

“Back home, you think?” Trey asks as he pulls the meatball truck out of the parking lot across from Aunt Mary’s. He winces turning the wheel, and I know his shoulder must hurt, even though he doesn’t like to admit it.

“Home would be the logical guess,” I say. And then I let out a huge sigh. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he’s going to . . .”

“No.” He puts on his sunglasses when we turn west. “Mom wouldn’t send us if she really thought he’d do it.”

We drive in silence as the sun sets. Trey pulls into the alley and goes toward the restaurant’s back parking lot. There’s a portable fence now around our plot of destruction and there are NO TRESPASSING signs posted. Trey parks next to the delivery car and we get out. He glances in the delivery car’s window, probably to make sure Dad didn’t blow his brains out in the front seat or something.