“Ain’t like I was goan to live a long life anyhow. You stay here. I’ll go pick up Maman, check on some podnas, then I’ll come back for you.”

“You ain’t leaving without me.”

“Fine. Come on, you.” By the light of that phone, we climbed the stairs again. I brushed the doorknob. Cool to the touch.

I opened up cautiously, easing the door back, and scented the air. To hell with it. I stepped out, glass cracking beneath my boots.

Every window had been shattered, the frames still smoking. We crept toward the front door.

Doc’s pecan trees were charred stumps. His mulberry bushes had disappeared. Black streaks slashed over the bricks of his house. Other houses in the neighborhood were burning.

Next door, all that remained of a larger wooden home were cinders and a scorched Virgin Mary statuette; I crossed myself.

“Where are all the trees?” Clotile asked, sounding stunned as she surveyed the destruction.

I didn’t see a single one. I swallowed. “Gone.”

“You think there’d be some people around.”

“Most everybody was outside when the fire hit.” We reached the sidewalk, found a gray pile of ash. “Doc was standing right here.” I toed the small mound, and my heart started to thunder.

Clotile wheezed in a breath. “A-are those what I think they are?”

Doc’s dentures. “Ouais.” I surveyed the street. More of those piles dotted the blistered pavement.

She whispered, “Those . . . were people.”

When I gazed out over the waterfront, my mind nearly turned over. “No water. It’s all dried up.” Only cracked mud remained. Blackened metal barges listed in the muck. The skeletons of shrimp boats still burned. “I can’t be seeing right. Tell me . . . tell me I’m on a bad bender, me. And I ain’t seeing this.”

Clotile shook her head, her face pale. “It’s gotta be a nightmare.”

“Need to get to Maman.” We headed to the truck. The exterior was charred, but looked okay otherwise. Clotile tossed me the keys, and we climbed in the cab.

When the engine wouldn’t turn over, I beat the steering wheel with frustration.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Hey, we’ll find us another one.”

I eased off. I needed to keep my calm and focus. I nodded, and we got out to look. A lot of cars had been wrecked. Some were stalled out, right in the street. We tried a few of them, but none of them would crank.

I grated, “We’re walking it.” Wouldn’t be the first time.

Along the road, we didn’t meet another soul, but we passed more piles of ash.

Clotile stumbled. “Jack, we gone to hell?”

I helped her along. “Just . . . just keep walking, you.” Could Maman have survived? The structures that had once had the most tree cover fared best; thick cypress boughs had stretched out over my shack. And it’d been soaked from the earlier downpour.

Maybe she’d lived.

My traitorous thoughts turned to Evie. Big oaks had surrounded Haven. Could she have made it from my place to hers before that flash of light? Before the fire? Had I gotten her killed . . . ? Keep it together, Jack.

For the last mile to my home, Clotile and I ran. I careened into my yard ahead of her, slowing in shock.

The cypress trees were stumps. The shack had collapsed, was just a mound of smoldering wood, covered with sheets of scorched tin. “Ah, God, Maman!” I sprinted to the pile, then yanked at the metal.

“Hélène!” Clotile called, hurrying over to help.

“Answer us, Maman!”

“Jack?” came a muffled reply from somewhere under the heap.

My eyes shot wide. “I’m here!” I tore at the boards like a madman, pitching them to the side. “Goan to get you free. Are you hurt? Anything broken?”

“Non.” Her hand waved between boards.

I hauled debris away, enough to ease her out from under a heavy rafter, freeing her.

She threw her arms around me. “Jack! I knew you’d come for me.”

“Thank God you’re all right!” I drew back to brush mud off her face, frowning at the roughness of her cheek. Her skin felt leathery. And her cracked lips bled. “What’s happened to you, Maman?” Her eyes were filmy, her gray pupils lighter, almost like chalk.

I fought a dawning recognition. She reminded me of . . . the creatures Evie had sketched.

I shared a glance with Clotile, who shook her head in confusion.

“I doan know.” Maman’s rosary was stark against her weathered neck. “I feel so strange, me.” She tried to lick her battered lips.

“We’re goan to get you to a doctor in the next parish over.” The next state over, if we had to. Somebody would be able to help her.

She clutched my shoulders, her nails digging in. Her eyes seemed to be lightening even more, her skin getting worse by the second. “Oh, Jack, I never been so thirsty in all my days.”

So why was her gaze locked . . . on my throat?