“Hey,” Sawyer says in greeting as they walk past.

They respond pleasantly. I relax a bit as they pile into a car nearby.

As the fourth guy opens the back door and puts his foot inside, he looks at us and nods once. The safety lighting from the building shines on him, and I see a raised scar down one cheek. With the door still open, his hand on the inside handle, ready to pull it shut, he pauses and looks at me. Hard.

Our eyes lock. I swallow and give a closed-lip smile.

He hesitates, and when the other guys start hollering for him to hurry up, a look of clarity washes over him. He smiles at me and nods. And I’m probably projecting, but it’s almost like he’s really pleased to see me. Alive.

My chest tightens.

The guy’s fingers flit in an awkward wave as he sits down and closes the door.

The driver pulls out of his parking space and speeds off.

When they’re gone, I look at Sawyer and he looks at me.

We shrug and grin together. “Do you think that was him?” Sawyer asks, incredulous.

“I don’t know. I doubt it. Too much of a coincidence.” I hesitate. “But maybe I’ll just pretend it’s him, and that we have an understanding now.”

And then Sawyer plants a kiss on my lips, and we get in the car and go home.

Because it’s over. For real this time.

• • •

All I know is that for a while there, we were invincible. And every now and then, when I see a news story about an ordinary hero saving people from an almost certain tragedy, I glance at Sawyer, and he glances at me, and we know the vision curse continues on without us. I think about the heroes and wonder how it happened for them—how they came to be saved, so that they, too, could rescue someone. I wonder about their stories and the people who have come in and touched their lives, and then disappeared again . . . or stayed in them.

But those are not my stories to tell.