It turns out to be Jeffrey. He lands at the edge of the lawn, wild-eyed like something’s after him. He’s carrying his backpack over one shoulder, curling his arm around it to keep it out of the way of his wings. He turns to look down our driveway. For a moment his back is to me, and all I see are his wings. The feathers are nearly black, the color of lead.

“Is that your brother?” asks Christian.

Jeffrey hears him and turns like he expects a fight. When he spots us on the porch he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the porch light, squinting to identify us.

“Clara?” he calls. It reminds me of when he was a little kid. He used to be scared of the dark.

“It’s me,” I answer. “Are you okay?”

He takes a few steps forward into the circle of light from the porch. His face is a flash of white in the darkness. He smells like the burned forest.

“Christian?” he asks.

“In the flesh,” Christian replies.

“You did it. You saved Christian,” says Jeffrey. He sounds relieved.

I can’t stop staring at his dark wings. “Jeffrey, where have you been?”

He flutters up to the roof, landing gingerly in front of his bedroom window, which is wide open.

“Looking for you,” he says in an anxious hush before he ducks inside. “Don’t tell Mom.”

I look up at the starless sky.

“We should go in, before anything else happens,” I say to Christian.

“Wait.” He lifts his hand like he’s going to touch my face. I flinch, and then he flinches. His hand stops inches from my cheek, an almost identical pose as what I’ve seen a hundred times in the vision. We both know it.

“Sorry,” he says. “You have a smudge.” He takes a breath like he’s making a deliberate decision and his fingers graze my skin. His thumb strokes a place on my cheek, rubbing at a spot. “There. I got it.”

“Thanks,” I say, blushing.

Just then the door swings open and Tucker stands on the other side staring at us, first at me, his eyes sweeping over me from head to foot to make sure I’m all in one piece, and then at Christian and his hand, which still hovers near my face. I watch his expression change from something worried and loving to something darker, a resigned determination that I’ve seen before, when he broke up with me.

I jerk away from Christian.

“Tucker,” I say. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

I throw myself into his arms. He hugs me tightly.

“I couldn’t leave,” he says.

“I know.”

“I mean, literally. I don’t have a ride.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She’s asleep on the couch. She seems okay, but kind of thrashed. She didn’t really want to talk to me.”

Christian clears his throat uncomfortably.

“I should go,” he says.

I hesitate. I intended to bring him home and sit him down with Mom, tell his side of the story, try to figure out what it all means. That doesn’t seem possible now.

“We’ll talk later,” he says.

I nod.

He turns quickly and goes down the porch steps.

“How are you going to get home?” Tucker asks.

Christian’s eyes meet mine for an instant.

“I’ll call my uncle,” he says slowly. “I’ll walk out to the road to meet him. I don’t live too far.”

“Okay,” says Tucker, clearly confused.

“See you later,” he says, and turns his back on us both and jogs down the driveway into the dark.

I pull Tucker inside before he can see Christian fly away.

“So you flew him out of the fire too, huh?” he asks after I close the door.

“It’s a long story, and I don’t even understand a lot of it yet. And some of it’s not mine to tell.”

“But it’s over? I mean, the fire’s over now. You’re all done with your purpose?”

The word still feels like a knife sticking me.

“Yes. It’s over.”

And that’s true. The fire is over. My vision is done. So why do I get the feeling that I’m lying to him again?

“Thanks for saving my life today,” Tucker says.

“I couldn’t help it,” I say, trying for funny, but neither of us smiles. Neither of us says I love you either, but we both want to. Instead I offer to take him home.

“Flying?” he asks hesitantly.

“I thought we’d take the car.”

“Okay.”

He leans in and tries to press a quick, gentlemanly kiss to my lips. But I don’t let him pull away. I grab his T-shirt and hold on, crushing my lips to his, trying to pour everything out of me into this one kiss, all that I’m feeling, all that I’m still afraid of, all my love, so strong it borders on pain. He groans and tangles his hands in my hair and kisses me enthusiastically, walking me backward until my back hits the door. I’m shaking, but I don’t know if it’s because of him or because of me. I only know I never want to let him go again.

From behind him Mom clears her throat. Tucker steps back from me, breathing hard. I stare up into his eyes and smile.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Clara,” she says. “How are you?”

“Good.” I turn to look at her. “I was just going to take Tucker home.”

“Okay,” she says. “But then come straight back.”

Afterward, after I drop Tucker off and come back, I take a shower. I stand under the water and turn it up as hot as I can bear. The water runs through my hair and down my face, and only then do the tears come, pouring out of me until some of the heaviness in my chest lifts. Then I summon my wings and carefully wash the soot from them. The water swirls gray around my feet. I scrub at the feathers and they come clean, although they aren’t as white as they were before. I wonder if they will ever be bright and beautiful again.

When the hot water runs out, I towel off and take my time combing out my hair. I can’t look at myself in the mirror. I lie in bed, exhausted, but I can’t sleep. Finally I give up and go downstairs. I open the refrigerator and stare inside before deciding I’m not hungry. I try to watch TV, but nothing holds my attention, and the light from the flickering screen casts shadows on the wall that spook me even though I know there’s nothing there.

I think I’m becoming scared of the dark.

I go to Mom’s room. I thought she’d interrogate me when I got back from Tucker’s, but she was already in bed, asleep again. I just look at her lying there, wanting to be close to her but not to disturb her. A shaft of light from the open door falls across her. She seems so frail, so small curled up on her side in the middle of the bed, one arm cast over her head. I move closer to the bed and touch her shoulder, and her skin is cool. She frowns.