I take a breath, and for a second, I think I’m going to black out.

Flynn casts a look at the bodies above us. Patrick has shifted so that his face is staring straight down at me. His eyes are closed. Frankie dangles beside him, her profile hidden in the shadows of her hair.

There’s no way out.

I have to do this. I will do this. Because any one of them is worth more than I’m worth to myself.

I spread my hand out on the case’s cool, firm surface.

“Hang on,” says Flynn. “You’ll want to do it to your strumming hand.”

Of course.

I switch the knife to my left. I place my right hand, palm down, on the case. With any luck, I’ll miss the major nerves and tendons. I’ll sever some veins, sure, but not enough to kill me.

I can live with this. If I’ll still be myself at all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see another burning flash. It could just be a sputter from the fire, but it could also be something in the woods, moving closer.

The dark things are drawing closer, too. They surround us, creeping inward, gurgling, waiting. I can practically feel their hunger.

Cold and heat clash on my skin. The light is burning out. I’m ash inside. A lump of dead coal.

“It’s okay, kid,” says Flynn, and I hate him for the kindness in his voice. “Focus on all the songs you’re going to write. The shows you’re going to play. It’s all going to be worth it.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Just get it over with.”

I’m done fighting.

All right. Let’s get this over with.

Before Flynn can move, before I can rethink, I drop the knife. I lunge forward on my knees. I thrust my hand—my left hand, the hand I use to create chords, the hand that needs every finger—into the fire. My hand closes around a piece of smoldering wood. I grip it tight.

They want the guitarist. But they can’t have him. Nobody can.

I’m going to destroy him myself.

My. Self.

At first, the pain can’t even break through. There are too many other things. The molten texture of the burning wood against my palm. The smoke and heat stinging my eyes. The darkness and the light. Everything feels like a dream, and none of it can possibly be real.

And then the pain hits in a first giant wave. My arm shakes. My hand sears. My skin shrieks. Every cell of me is trying to get away. To drop the burning branch. But I hold on. I can’t let go yet, not until I know the damage is done. Until I know that I’ll never play a guitar again.

Flynn is shouting something. I can’t even hear him. Because all around us, the warped, dark things are roaring.

Their fury is like a tidal wave. It wants to drag me away. But I hold on. I clench my teeth and close my eyes.