When Rose awoke, she was alone in a room and she knew she was more than just a little sick. She was hot all over and the pain in her stomach was unbearable. Her head was on fire. Over and over when she heard another person passing she asked for water.

The answer came back, “Faker.”

How long did she lie there? It seemed like days, but soon she was half dreaming. Over and over she prayed to Uncle Lestan. “Come get me, please, come get me. I didn’t mean to do it, please, please forgive me.” She couldn’t imagine that he would want her to suffer like this. Surely Aunt Julie and Aunt Marge had told him what was happening. Aunt Marge had been hysterical by the time they took Rose away.

At some point, Rose realized something. She was dying. All she could think of now was water. And every time she drifted off, it was a dream that someone was giving her water; then she’d wake and there was no water; and there was no one there; no one passing; no one saying “faker,” and no one saying “admit.”

A strange calm came over Rose. So this is how her life would end, she thought. And maybe Uncle Lestan just didn’t know or didn’t understand how bad it was. What would it matter?

She slept and she dreamed but she kept shivering and waking with a jolt. Her lips were cracked. And there was so much pain in her stomach and chest and her head that she could feel nothing else.

Sliding in and out, dreaming of cold clear water in glasses from which she could drink, she heard sirens go off. They were loud screeching sirens far away but coming closer, and then alarms within this place itself went off, blasting with horrific volume. Rose could smell smoke. She could see the flicker of flames. She heard the girls screaming.

Right before her, the wall broke apart and so did the ceiling. The whole room blew apart with chunks of plaster and wood flying in all directions.

Wind swept through the room. The screams around her grew louder and louder.

A man came towards Rose. He looked like Uncle Lestan, but it wasn’t Uncle Lestan. It was a dark-haired man and a beautiful man with the same bright eyes that Uncle Lestan had, except this man’s eyes were green. He scooped Rose up from her pallet and wrapped her in something warm and close, and then they went upwards.

Rose saw flames all around as they rose. The entire compound was burning.

The man carried her up and up into the sky just as it had happened long years ago above the little island.

The air was marvelously cold and fresh. “Yes, the stars …,” she whispered.

When she saw the great sweep of diamond-bright stars, she was that little child again in Uncle Lestan’s arms.

A gentle voice spoke in her ear, “Sleep, Rose, you’re safe now. I’m taking you to your uncle Lestan.”

Rose woke in a hospital room. She was surrounded by people in white coats and masks. A kindly female voice said, “You’re going to be all right, darling. I’m giving you something to make you sleep.”

Behind the nurse stood that man, that dark-haired man with the green eyes, who’d brought Rose here. He had the same darkly tanned skin as Uncle Lestan had, and his fingers felt like silk as he stroked Rose’s cheek now.

“I’m your uncle’s friend, Rose,” he said. “My name is Louis.” He pronounced it the French way, Louie. “Believe me, Rose, your uncle will be here soon. He’s on his way. He’ll take care of you, and I’ll be here until he comes.”

Next time she opened her eyes, she felt completely different. All the pain and pressure were gone from her stomach and chest. They’d evacuated all the waste from her body, she realized that. And when she thought of how revolting that must have been, fingers prying into her unwashed flesh, removing all that filth, she felt ashamed again and sobbed against the pillow. She felt to blame and miserable. The tall dark-haired man stroked her hair and told her not to worry anymore. “Your aunt Julie is on the way. Your uncle is on the way. Go back to sleep, Rose.”

Though she was groggy and confused, she could see she was being given fluids and something white, some sort of IV nourishment. The doctor came. She said it would be about a week before Rose could leave, but the “danger” was past. It had been touch and go there for a while, all right. But Rose would be fine. The infection was under control; Rose was hydrated now. The man named Louis thanked the doctor and the nurse.

Rose blinked through her tears. The room was filled with flowers. “He’s sent you lilies,” said Louis. He had a soft deep voice. “He’s sent you roses, too, all colors of roses. Your flower, Rose.”

When Rose started to apologize for what she’d done, Louis wouldn’t hear of it. He told her the people who’d taken her were “evil.” The judge had gotten kickbacks from the Christian home to send perfectly decent teenagers there for incarceration. The school bilked the parents of the children and the state for exorbitant payments. He said that the judge would soon be in jail. As for the home, it was gone, burned down, shut up, and lawyers would see that it never opened again.

“It was wrong what they did to you,” he whispered.

In his soft unhurried voice, he said there would be many lawsuits against the home. And the remains of two bodies had been found buried on the grounds. He wanted Rose to know these people would be punished.

Rose was amazed. She wanted to explain about the car, that she had never meant to hurt anybody.

“I know,” he said. “It was a little thing. It was nothing. Your uncle is not angry with you. He would never be angry with you over such a thing. Sleep now.”

By the time Uncle Lestan came Rose was home with Aunt Marge in a Miami Beach apartment. She had lost weight and felt frail and jumped at the slightest noise. But she was much better. Uncle Lestan took her into his arms, and they went out to walk along the beach together.

“I want you to go to New York,” said Uncle Lestan. “New York is the capital of the world. And I want you to go to school there. Aunt Marge is going to take you. Aunt Julie will stay behind. Florida is her home and she can’t adjust to the big city. But Aunt Marge will take care of you, and you’re to have other companions now, good, decent security guards who’ll keep you both safe. I want you to have the finest education.” He went on, “Remember, Rose, whatever you’ve suffered, no matter how bad it’s been, you can use that, use that to be a stronger person.”

For hours they talked, not about the horrid Christian home but about other things, Rose’s love of books, her dreams of writing poetry and stories someday, and her enthusiasm about New York, and how she so wanted to go to a great university like Harvard or Stanford or who knows where?