"You don't suck at this," she says.

"I'm trying to be careful. You might could use stitches for this cut on your cheek. It's not long, but it's deep."

"No stitches. Just the Band-Aids will cover me."

"It might scar."

She winks. "Scars are sexy."

"I'm glad you came back."

"Shouldn't have left in the first place."

With his teeth, Louis uncaps some generic brand Neosporin, blobs a little on his broad finger, and applies it to her forehead and then her cheek. She enjoys the touch. It's simple and it's intimate. It puts her in a Zen state; it's a mindlessness she embraces.

It does not embrace her, however. Not easily.

He's going to die, a nagging voice reminds.

She takes a deep breath, and she tells that voice, I know.

And it's true. She does know it. This is all one big roller coaster, she thinks. Everybody's buckled in for the ride; no getting off it early. The hills and valleys, the sharp hairpin curves and the long straightaways. The screams. The rush. The terror. The finality as it slows to a finish. Fate designed the experience. Fate's got its hands all over everything.

But, she thinks, maybe there's something fate can't touch. Maybe what's not yet decided is how you think about things, or more important, how you feel about them. Maybe fate doesn't control how easily you come to peace. She hopes that's true. Because she wants to find a little bit of peace.

Louis is going to die in a lighthouse in less than two weeks now.

She can't stop that. That's where he gets off the ride.

Maybe, she thinks, that's where she gets off, too. Because the truth is, she doesn't know what designs fate has for her. She's not privy to the map. Miriam can touch others and see how they die, but the same isn't true for herself – her demise remains a mystery. And it will until she meets that end, it seems. She likes to image it'll be a violent death. But now, with Louis's touch, she maybe thinks – or at least hopes – otherwise.

"I have a favor to ask," she says.

"Too hard?"

"Just perfect. You're leaving soon."

"On a run, yeah."

"Take me with you."

He pulls his hand away, surprised.

"You want to come with me?"

She nods. "I like you. I want to get away from this. Plus, I might be in danger. From the boyfriend. From the brother. Who knows? You're safe. I like safe."

Louis smiles as she lies.

"We hit the road in the morning," he says.

She kisses him on the chin. It makes her whole face hurt to move like that. It's pain she endures.

PART THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

This Is Where Randy Hawkins Dies

Nobody knows who Randy Hawkins is, because he is a big old nobody.

He's certainly not an attractive man: pig's nose, curly red hair, a denim jacket that was in style maybe two decades ago. His shoes are still on, but if one were to see his feet, one would note that they match his nose: pig hooves. They totally look like pig hooves.