We were still sitting there when Williams got home. He stood there for a second, taking in the tableau — me hunched over, pale and shaking. Callie holding my hand, speaking to me quietly.

“Had a come-to-Jesus moment?” he said nastily.

I stared back at him, too shell-shocked to respond.

“I don’t think I’m getting through to her,” Callie said. “Can you explain it to her?”

“Nope. Not my job.”

He headed into the kitchen, then called out, “Come with me tonight, Callie? I still can’t get it closed. Must be stuck on something.”

She stiffened slightly beside me. “Is it safe?”

“I just need you to take a look. No need to leave the barrier.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. I wondered what sort of demon they were going to send back to Hell that night. The thought struck me as so ludicrous, so cliché, that I got the giggles. Lord help me, I couldn’t stop. Even Williams growling “shut the fuck up” didn’t do it. I laughed until I cried. Eventually I got up and wandered into the den and turned on Callie’s TV. I channel-surfed until I found a dour episode of Law & Order. Even then, I kept having to stifle laughter. It kept bubbling up, as though it were washing something away.

At last, I curled up on the couch and went to sleep to the drone of the TV.

Sometime in the wee hours, the front door crashed open. I got into the kitchen just as Williams was setting Callie down on the floor. At first he was in the way, and I couldn’t see. When I did, I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Her face, neck, and upper chest were a dry, grayish white. I couldn’t see her features. I could only tell it was her by the gray slacks she was wearing. I didn’t understand. What had happened to her?

I came closer and smelled cooked flesh. She had no hair. She had no ears. In a rush, comprehension came — she was burned to char. What I was seeing was ash.

“Not in here,” Williams said without looking up.

I rushed out but didn’t make it to the bathroom before vomiting. I crouched at the end of the hallway, heaving, for several minutes. Then I gathered myself and struggled back to the kitchen. I was shaking so badly it was hard to walk.

Williams was speaking quietly into a cell phone. He had brought in some couch cushions and put Callie’s feet up on them. I looked at her. The unburned parts I could see were a clammy white. Her fingertips were blue.

When he hung up, I said, “Was that 911?”

He didn’t say anything.

“She needs a hospital. Right now.”

He turned to me. I cowered, expecting rage, but his face was strangely blank.

“You want to be useful? Hold her hand.”