The evening air hangs heavy with humidity as we head outside, lingering for a moment on the sidewalk. This is it, the last time we’ll be here. In this strange, heady neighborhood in this strange, heady city.

Beneath a flickering streetlight, Jane tries to say goodbye to Bee, to say anything at all, but she doesn’t get the chance. Bee spots the Buick and rushes on ahead, leaving the rest of us behind.

Jane’s face goes pink with shame. “She’ll never forgive me, will she?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Jane peers at me. “Do you forgive me?”

“Forgiveness doesn’t matter much,” I say. “It’s about doing the best we can now.”

“And how can I help with that?”

“Take this.” I pass the urn to Jane, and her eyes go wide.

“Why me?” she asks.

“Because if something happens to me and Bee—” I start to say, but instantly Jane blanches, already anticipating what I’ll say next.

So I don’t say it. Instead, I close her hands tighter around the urn. “You just keep him from finding it. All right?”

At this, Jane nods, a steely resolve in her eyes. “I can do that,” she says, and there she is, the girl she used to be, the one who could stand up to anyone.

I cross the street, and Bee’s already in the passenger seat, her shoulders hunched. She’s too tired to drive, so I slide behind the wheel. From the sidewalk, Michael and Jane bid us goodbye, but I turn away, refusing to look back, part of me afraid of what comes next. Afraid we’ll never see them again.

Only, I won’t think of that now. The Buick grumbles to life, the engine rattling worse than before, and we start down the road. Heading north one more time, back to the Marin Headlands. Back to Dracula and Rochester.

It’s Friday night, and the Haight’s coming alive. Kids on every block, flowers in their hair, hope brimming in their eyes. I remember what that’s like. This place made me remember. I’d wanted to forget who I was, how naïve I’d been the night Dracula found me. But that’s one thing this place has got in abundance: the belief in something better. Sometimes, that doesn’t seem like much. Sometimes, it seems like everything.

We’re almost to the highway when Bee turns to me.

“You shouldn’t have trusted Jane with the urn.” She gnaws her bottom lip. “All of this is her fault, Lucy.”

“I prefer to think it’s Rochester’s fault,” I say. “He’s the one who lied to her. Or only told her half the truth.”