That was it. Even though I knew I was colluding in Callie’s death, I didn’t say another word.

I sat down on the floor beside her and took her hand. It was unnaturally cool to the touch, and sweaty. I listened to the harsh crackle of her breathing. Her airway must’ve been burned as well. Williams sat on the other side of her with his back against the cabinets, looking down.

There we waited. For hours.

Callie did regain consciousness briefly at one point. Her hand tightened on mine, and she stirred. I saw the opening that used to be her mouth moving and bent down to hear. I couldn’t really understand her. She might’ve said, “Doesn’t hurt.”

Around dawn, I heard the rumble of a motorcycle outside. Moments later, someone entered the house — a woman. She paused in the kitchen doorway.

“Is she alive?”

Williams didn’t answer, so I nodded.

“Thank god. Move over.”

I glanced at Williams again for guidance, but he was still looking down.

I got up and stepped back. The woman took my place. She was young — in her late teens, maybe twenty, tops. She was quite a bit shorter than me, five-foot-one or -two. Her hair was shaved close on the sides and bleached almost white. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream. I wasn’t sure of her ethnicity. Latina, maybe. She had several facial piercings, and the edge of a tattoo showed above her collar. But for all the tough-chick fixings, she looked nervous.

She picked up Callie’s hand and closed her eyes. The ashen surface of Callie’s face and chest turned black, then dark brown. Her body seemed to inflate slightly, as though lost mass were returning. The browned skin became hamburger-red, then pink and blistered. New ears seemed to grow from the blackened nubs, like one of those time-lapse photos. Eyelids and lips formed as well. Her nose grew back, red skin and white cartilage pushing out the blackened edges of the ruin that had been there before.

Callie was recognizable again — definitely still burned, but recognizable.

The blond woman moaned and slumped back against the cabinets.

Callie began to stir and whimpered in pain.

The blond woman tried to say something. She was shockingly pale. A sheen of sweat stood out on her face. On the second try, she managed to say, “Bag.”

I noticed the small duffle in the kitchen doorway only when Williams stood up and fetched it. The woman must’ve dropped it there when she came in. Williams had to unzip it for her. It was full of medical supplies. Following her directions, he prepared a syringe and injected it into Callie’s arm. After a few seconds, Callie’s body relaxed, and her breathing slowed. She was unconscious.

She was also largely healed. I mean, she still had serious burns, but the difference was night and day.