The inside of the bank sprawls with rough carpet, dusty mahogany desks, and gold accents. Micah sleeps behind a fake plant. A girl named Zarah cuddles a blanket as she waits for her girlfriend. I hop the front desk, taking a moment to steady myself once I’m on the other side, and open the door to the hall of offices.

Erin is there, in a little nook under the window.

Finding her alone in the dark just isn’t right. She’s hunched, hidden in the folds of a charred shawl, braids falling around her face. In middle school, I’d carry hair ties for girls who needed them, and even now I reach for them around my wrist.

“Hey,” I whisper, quietly so as not to scare her.

Her head jerks up. “Fuck,” she says. I’m not sure what’s more shocking—the broken look in her eyes or the fact she just said fuck. “Sorry. Hey, Benji.”

A tear slips out from the corner of her eye. I sit on the floor beside her, our knees touching.

“Sorry,” she says again. “I should be out there helping, but here I am.”

“I’m just glad you’re in one piece,” I say, tapping my fingers against my thigh to keep the sick down.

“I hate that one piece is all we can hope for these days.”

“You need anything?”

“I sound like such a child,” she says. “A hug? Nick isn’t great at them. No offense, but.”

I brace myself, and Erin just falls against my chest. She’s…so small. She has such a big personality and a few inches on me, but God, she’s so soft and frail. She’s shaking with fear, adrenaline, and exhaustion, like we all are.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

No. No, I should be the one saying that. I should be thanking her, Nick, and the ALC. For this, and the bobby pins, and the hands holding me upright, and the people I saved and who saved me. Those are the things I would burn down the Angels for.

It’s the least I could do, considering what I’ve brought down on them.

I wonder where Nick is right now. What I could say to him now. If I could find the words to apologize to him, after all this.

Erin pulls back just enough that our temples knock together. Her hands rest on my arms, where I rolled up my sleeves against the heat, showing the ashes and angry red marks that weren’t there earlier. Marks that the fire could have put there, but I know they didn’t.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

I shake my head. She doesn’t need to worry about me.