“Give her time,” said Gary. He was pale, even in that red light. He’d washed the blood from his spiking hair—I could see where Chris must have hit him when he went to the truck for the cutters. He leaned against the tailgate.

“My mum would have said I shouldn’t get involved,” he said, as if it were a heavy thought. “That’s the point of being a Damson, apparently. You just … don’t do anything.”

“Even for friends?”

“Well,” said Gary. He shrugged. I remembered the story he had told us. The wishes.

Dazed with the afternoon’s events, I said, “Do you believe you forced us to be your friends? With your—wish?”

He looked guilty, then glanced up at an angle, wistful. “You really remember? Being friends?”

I needed time too, but Trish was sick and Gary didn’t look much better. “Mostly, I remember being annoyed at you,” I said sturdily.

I knew I should make Trish be well. The boys had been beyond my power, but this, even if she didn’t thank me, was the correct thing to do. I could tell her she would be better, she hadn’t done anything wrong, everything was all okay. And it might be. For a while. Then one day she would feel an ache, a fear.

I leaned cautiously back, not too close to Gary. I was tired: a new bone-weariness all my own, every piece of me present and heavy as lead.

“How are you feeling?” I asked Gary, carefully phrasing it as a question. He didn’t reply. Glancing across, I saw him smile tightly and shake his head.

“Here comes the cavalry,” he said.

The police car grumbled down the track, its dust-cloud pale against the growing dusk. It rounded the house and came through the trees.

“This won’t be simple,” Gary added. We walked to meet them.

Sergeant Aberdeen got out. My mother emerged from the passenger side. She was beautiful, moth-pale in the evening.

“My poor Bettina!” She held her hands toward me, but when I reached her, she stepped back. She looked thinner, almost translucent. “Bettina!” she cried. “What have you been doing?”

I looked down. My dress was covered with dust and oily dirt, torn by wire, spattered with my brothers’ blood. Blood had dried sticky on my hands and arms, and a wetter stain stuck the bodice of my dress to my skin. I put my hand to my chest and drew it away with a gasp. Chris had cut me after all, before—before.

“It will be fine,” I said, faintly. “I’ll be fine.” It hurt less, I thought. I could believe it was healing.

“What have they done to you?” said my mother. “It was that Damson boy, wasn’t it?” She wouldn’t blame Trish, not with the sergeant standing there. “He isn’t a good influence—I told you, didn’t I, Bettina?”