The stethoscope on Michael’s chest, and the doctor listens close. “His heart rate’s steady,” he says, though I could have told him that. “His breathing’s good too.”

Daisy jumps forward a little, anxious as a colt. “He’ll survive, then?”

The doctor smiles. “Looks like it.”

Michael’s half sitting up now, a bit of color swirling again in his cheeks. The doctor’s right. He will survive—so long as I don’t get hold of him again.

The urn quivers in my hands. I can’t be trusted with it. After tonight, it’s obvious I can’t be trusted with anything. Daisy’s still got her crocheted bag slung across her shoulder, and I tuck the urn inside, leaving it with her. This is the best thing I can do. The only thing I can do now. Then I’m gone, out the door.

Bee calls my name, her voice a barb in my back, but I won’t turn around. I just keep going, through the impossible maze of hallways, down the steep steps, and out into the night.

The June air tastes of mist and brine, the ocean whispering between buildings, so close yet too far away to see. I wander down the block, headlights flashing across my face, jubilant voices screeching like bald tires on wet cement. I don’t belong here, but then again, neither does anyone else. We’re all invaders in this neighborhood, pushing into spaces where we weren’t invited.

I’m lingering at a corner, a Bank of America sign overhead, when a car slows next to me, the ragged engine turning over. I jump back, startled, but when the stoplight changes, I walk on, trying to ignore it. This car won’t ignore me, though. It keeps pace at my side, paying no heed to the other vehicles that honk and speed around it on the wrong side of the road.

I finally glance up, ready to tell the driver to take a hike, but my throat goes dry when I see it.

A cracked taillight, rust on the bumper, leather upholstery spewing yellow foam. The Buick. Our Buick.

The top’s still down, so he’s easy to spot there in the driver’s seat. Dracula, handsome and wicked as heartbreak. In the glow of the streetlight, he looks the same as when we met, his body broad and foreboding. Dark hair, dark eyes, the weight of the night in his stare. He’s everything I pretend I don’t want.

And he’s not alone. There’s a group of long-haired girls with him, all chattering and wide-eyed in the back seat, passing a joint back and forth, so naïve that it aches bone-deep in me. He’s going to eat them up alive unless someone stops him.

Unless I stop him.

Grinning, he leans across the seat, leans toward me.

“Need a ride, Lucy?” he asks, and flicks open the door.