As soon as she stepped out onto the porch, Wendy froze. Two cop cars were parked outside of the Davieses’ house next door, as well as a crime-scene van. Mr. Davies stood on the front lawn in his bright red robe, surrounded by police officers and talking to Detective James. One arm was across his chest, the other hand clamped over his mouth. His curly hair was tousled. Detective James was speaking in a low, even tone. Mr. Davies nodded or shook his head intermittently. Behind him, the door to his house stood wide open as police officers walked in and out. Wendy could hear Mrs. Davies wailing inside, an animalistic croon of mourning that made goosebumps race up her arms.

Wendy’s chest ached for them, the scene all too familiar.

She walked to the driveway, barely paying attention to where she was going, eyes glued to the scene next door. Was this how her own house had looked? Had her mother and father had the same expressions on their faces? It was almost like déjà vu, the same terrible echo through the universe.

Before she could even start to worry about how she was going to find Peter, she caught a glimpse of someone standing by her truck. She jolted to a stop, far too wary of strangers hovering in her driveway, but then she saw the shock of auburn hair and realized it was Peter.

He stood leaning against the door of her car, out of sight of the police officers next door. He was hunched in a way that, at first, suggested he was hiding from view, but there was something wrong. His expression was strained, and he was curled around his stomach, his hands pressed into his side.

Wendy rounded the truck, her eyes immediately searching for him. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

He looked sick, like he hadn’t slept in days. There were dark purple circles under his eyes that looked more like bruises. His lids were puffy, his blue eyes bright, bloodshot and glassy. His hair was a mess, as if any effort to tame it was just too much.

Peter, who brimmed with light and was constantly flitting around like a hummingbird, was changed. There was a small crease between his eyebrows and his shoulders were hitched up to his ears, his back curved as if he were trying to protect himself from a biting wind. His already full bottom lip was swollen and split down the center with a thin, wet line of crimson.

Wendy’s heart fluttered. “Jesus, what happened to you?” she whispered, reaching out to tilt his chin. When he winced back, she saw a bloom of red on his jaw, promising a bruise.

“It’s nothing. I’m okay,” Peter said. He tried to conjure up a smile, but even that looked pained. As he pushed himself from the car door, he swayed on his feet. Wendy rushed forward and caught his sides, trying to help steady him, but Peter sucked in a harsh breath between his teeth. His face twisted in pain, his hands pressing gingerly to his stomach.