I left my empty cup on the table and stepped back outside.

Flowers were just beginning to pop up in the dirt-filled bathtub. There was sun in the pale blue sky. The grass was green and fresh, and the trees rustled with peaceful whispers.

Ike Lawrence strode across the parking lot, carrying a load of supplies from the back of his truck. He spotted me from a distance. Nodded.

I nodded back.

“Nice day,” he said.

I smiled. Because it was.

Then he stepped through the kitchen door, and it swung shut behind him.

I’m going to miss that place.

“All packed?” Aunt Mae calls as I come down the stairs from the bedroom, my backpack over my arm.

Aunt Mae has been helpful, as much as I’ll let her. But last week wore her out. I’d rather keep her on the couch, wrapped up in blankets, sipping her whiskey-tinted coffee.

I worry about how she’ll do without me.

But she’s lived without me before.

“All packed,” I tell her, moving down the hall and into the living room. “Just one more outdoor job to do.”

Aunt Mae holds out her arms. I go to her. She hugs me tight. She smells like talcum powder and whiskey and coffee and leaves.

“Bless you, sweet girl,” she says, close to my ear. “You come back. Anytime.”

“I will,” I promise. “Whenever you call me. I will.”

I step out the back door.

Anders’s photo is in my hand, the one that hung on my bedroom wall. A box of matches waits in my pocket.

I burn the picture in the firepit.

I can’t help but think of Anders himself burning. Anders holding his own hand in the fire, until all of the darkness was gone.

He’s safe.

Thank you, I think. I let the thought rise up with the smoke, toward the gray-white sky high above. Thank you. Thank you.

“Hey,” says a voice.

I turn.

And it’s him.

He’s standing at the edge of Aunt Mae’s backyard. Just a few steps away.

I stand up. Slowly. As slowly as I can.

I would like this moment to last.

“Hello,” I say.

Anders looks around. He’s wearing jeans and a light black jacket. His bandaged hand sticks out of one sleeve.

“I can’t talk to anyone,” he says. He’s speaking slowly. Deliberately. “I can’t tell anyone about what happened. Nobody else remembers anything. No one would believe it. I can’t really believe it myself.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. You know. You were there. You know it was real.” He looks at me. “It was, wasn’t it?”

I take a breath. “It was real.”

He nods for a few seconds, like he’s letting the words sink down and down. “There are demons in the world. They’re real. There is darkness. And then—there’s you.”

I watch him. One scrap of hair flutters across his forehead, sweeping back and forth above his eyes.

“You said angels don’t exist,” he says. “But I saw you.”

I don’t answer.