They watch me solemnly.

“That makes sense,” says Patrick at last. “Maybe it was a car accident or something.”

“Oh,” says Jezz. “Yeah. Maybe the car caught fire, and you had to reach in to open the door and get Frankie out.”

They nod at each other.

Of course, that doesn’t really make sense. No one’s found a burned car. Frankie didn’t have any fire injuries. But it makes a lot more sense than what actually did happen. And right now, Jezz and Patrick are being kinder and more careful with me than they’ve ever been before. They’d agree with any stupid thing I said, I’m sure.

So I smile and say, “Hey. Let’s watch that Swedish cooking clip again.”

They smile back. And we do.

On the third day, in the middle of the afternoon, Mom taps on my bedroom door. She’s been working only half time this week, even though the bills for my hospital stay and the coming physical therapy are going to be huge, which means money is going to be even tighter. I’m trying not to add that guilt to the pile of bad things in my head.

“Come in,” I say from the bed, where I’m lying with Goblin on my stomach.

The door swings open. Frankie Lynde steps inside.

She’s always slipped in through the window before. Seeing her just walk through the door, like any normal human being, makes her seem more real than she’s ever been.

I sit up so fast that Goblin shoots to the floor.

Mrrk, he says, giving me an insulted look before ducking under the bed.

Frankie takes a little step closer. She’s wearing dark jeans and a sweater that makes me want to rub my face on it. I’m wearing drawstring pants and an ancient hoodie with Camp Longfellow printed on it. But right now, I barely care. I’m not pretending to be the rock star anymore.

Mom pulls the door shut from the outside.

“Hey,” says Frankie.

“Hey,” I whisper back. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I’m all right. And you’re”—she nods at my hand—“sort of all right?”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

We look at each other for a second.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks. “Or do you not want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Frankie gives me the tiniest smile. “I don’t know, either. For me, it’s mostly a big blank spot.” Her face is a little thinner than I remember it. Her cheeks are hollow. It makes her eyes seem even larger. “I hate it. That I can’t remember. It makes it so much worse.” She hugs herself with both arms. “There are a zillion stories flying around, of course.”

“About you?”

“About both of us. People think it’s all connected. That there’s some crazy kidnapper in the woods who trapped me in a burning building or something. But whoever it was . . . they didn’t hurt me.” She glances at my bandaged hand again. “Are you going to be okay?”