“Dogs, I hope so,” I mutter. I lift my chin and we kiss while we’re walking, and I feel like even though everything is such a mess, I can actually handle it because Sawyer’s here with me.

Six

Tori is awake. It’s the first time she’s had her eyes open when we’ve visited her. She doesn’t know who we are, but her mom explains and introduces us—we’ve talked to her a few times before.

Tori’s face is unmarred from the shooting. Her dark brown skin is flawless and beautiful. Her hair—a gorgeous mess of tiny black braids—undisturbed. Only her guts were ripped up, and the shreds sewn together. She still has tubes going into her arm—pain meds and antibiotics, her mom says.

My mind flashes to the music room again. The black-and-white checkerboard floor streaked with red. Tori looking dazed, lying against the wall, holding her hand to her stomach as blood poured out between her fingers. . . . Gah. She was the most seriously hurt. I grab the back of a chair as a wave of nausea rides over me. Half the time I feel like I’m still in shock. Like one day, when this is all over, I really will need to be committed.

It feels awkward, us knowing her but her not remembering us. I’m thankful for her mother, who has heard the story no doubt countless times by now from Ben, from us, from others who have visited.

My cell phone vibrates in my jeans pocket, but I ignore it and focus on Tori. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible,” Tori says in a soft voice. “Mostly terrible.” She looks at her mom. “Sorry. I’m tired of saying I’m fine.”

Tori’s mom shrugs and smiles. “Nothing wrong with telling the truth,” she says lightly. She turns to us. “It’s been very difficult.”

“I’m sure it has,” I say. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“So am I.” Her bottom lip trembles the slightest bit. “It sucks.”

I reach out and rest my hand on her forearm, and she lets me keep it there. “I’m really sorry. What else is happening? Are you having any nightmares . . . or anything?”

Sawyer leans in. “Jules and I have had some really weird side effects. Just mind tricks, I guess. The psychologist says it’s normal.”

Tori narrows her eyes at the ceiling. “Nightmares, sure. I think the pain meds are messing with me.”

I glance at Sawyer, and I can tell we’re wondering the same thing. “Every once in a while Sawyer was seeing a . . . like a vision, I guess. Right?”

“It really helped me to talk about it, though,” Sawyer says.

My phone vibrates again in my pocket. Tori doesn’t respond.

“So do you want to talk about it or anything?” I ask, trying not to sound odd about it.

“Not really,” Tori says. She looks out her window, frowns, and looks away.

Sawyer sits up straight. “Okay, well, is there anything you need? Any homework or stuff from your dorm or whatever?”

She looks at us like the weird strangers we are. “No. My roommate is handling that kind of stuff.” She yawns. “And I’m really tired now, so . . .”

Tori’s mother stands up on cue. “Thank you both for coming by to visit,” she says.

Sawyer and I stand too, somewhat reluctantly. “Sure,” I say. I spy a notepad and pen by the bed and ask, “Is it okay if I give you my phone number in case you ever want to talk?”

“Sure,” Tori says, but there’s no enthusiasm behind it.

I write my name and number on the notepad and sigh inwardly. “Okay. Well. I guess—”

Suddenly there’s a flurry of activity outside the room. I turn to look. Trey is running down the hallway toward us like a total lunatic, something he would never do under normal circumstances. I spring to my feet.

“Jules,” he calls out in a way that makes my heart clench. He sees me and lunges into the room, face flushed and breath ragged. Tori’s eyes widen in fear and Tori’s mom rushes over to stand between Trey and her daughter as a nurse comes running in to see what’s happening.

“Who are you?” Tori’s mom demands.

“What’s going on?” the nurse asks.

“He’s my brother,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Trey, what’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you ever answer your fucking phone?” Trey shouts, and I feel his breath hit my face. He stares at me, his face breaking. “We have to go.”

My stomach twists. “What? What is it? What happened?”

“It’s not Dad,” he says quietly. “It’s . . . it’s worse. Come on!”

Seven

“What is it?” I nearly scream as my brother races down the hallway to the elevator. I chase after him.

Trey stops in front of the closed elevator doors and turns so we’re standing face-to-face. His dark eyes are pooled with fear and he works his jaw like he does when he’s trying not to cry. “It’s a fire,” he says.

I stare. “What?”

“The restaurant,” he says, his voice cracking. “It’s on fire.”

My throat is closed. I am unable to choke out a single word. I hear Sawyer swear under his breath from somewhere behind me. I didn’t hear him approach. I didn’t hear anything. And then he’s explaining things in gibberish to the interns and security guards who have followed us, apologizing, and then when the people stop crowding around us he’s ushering Trey and me into the open elevator and pushing the buttons.