I shut myself in a copy room at the back of the hall. There’s still smoke on the air, seeping in through cracks, windows, and doors. I lie on the floor and stare at the ugly tile ceiling. In the silence, there’s nothing to focus on but my burned skin and nausea.

Before I fall asleep, I think I see feathers on the edge of my vision; I think I see something strange.

Eventually, the door opens. I don’t know when. The sound drags me out from sleep, and I look, just a little bit, thinking maybe it’s Erin coming in to check on me or more feathers lurking in the shadows.

Nick stands in the doorway.

He peers in for a moment, awkward and stiff, and leaves.

Those red marks climb up my arms, skin dying in rivers along what used to be veins. They make the heat blisters stand out on my hands, looking like something trying to erupt.

Seraph pushing out, the Flood pushing out, hungry.

Later. The door opens. The door closes.

My eyes open just a crack. Nick stands in the room, unsure, doing that tapping motion again—tp-tp tp-tp—over and over, until it’s not enough, and he violently shakes out his hands. He tips forward a little bit, back a little bit, forward, back, and soon his expression doesn’t look as pained. Still hurting but not unbearable. Another shake of his hands. A breath with eyes squeezed shut.

I say nothing. Not just because I’m pretending to be asleep, but because I know this is something private. He’s gone to such lengths to hide this side of himself—the side that flaps his hands and rocks until he’s together again—that admitting I’m a witness to it feels wrong.

But I do make sure he’s in one piece. That’s all we can ask for.

He is, eventually. His breathing evens. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and primly fixes his bobby pins. He stands with his feet firmly on the floor.

He crouches beside me.

I fight to keep myself still. As still as possible. His breath gently huffs behind his mask; his shoe scrapes on the carpet as he keeps his balance. He smells like smoke and sweat.

Nick’s fingers hover, for a moment, over my arm. Over my cheek, over my hair.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Shit.” He gets up and goes to the door but stops, reaching for the doorknob but unable to grab it, and he turns away like he can’t consider the idea any longer.

He takes off his jacket.

And his shirt.