Back in the Buick, I tuck the letter opener and the necklace in the glove box, and Tyrone watches us leave from his own doorstep, that ugly glower still on his face. I wave goodbye, not to him but to the house.

Bee glances back in the rearview, the wreckage shrinking smaller and smaller in the distance. “It wasn’t all bad here,” she whispers.

“No,” I say, my heart twisted in my chest, “it wasn’t.”

The sun’s spilling over the horizon when we pull into the drive-in. Bee’s barely put the Buick in park before Michael comes bounding down the front steps, smiling like the fool he is.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it back before dawn.” He turns to Bee. “Jane’s inside waiting for you.”

The engine croaks out, but Bee doesn’t move. “And the urn?” she asks, accusation sizzling in her voice.

Michael shrugs. “It’s inside too.”

Bee starts in, as if to confirm for herself, as if she can’t possibly believe Jane did what she said. I linger in the Buick, the sun creeping closer, as I stare down at Daisy in the back seat. Her heartbeat’s quieter than before, a meek little rhythm in her chest.

“Maybe we should get her to a hospital,” I say.

At this, her eyes snap open. “Please,” she murmurs. “Don’t send me away.”

Daisy, afraid of being discarded, of being left behind.

Maybe they couldn’t help her anyhow—it’s not like a blood transfusion did a damn bit of good for me—and besides, we’d be in the same predicament as we were with Michael. We couldn’t explain this to anyone.

Though I don’t ask him to, Michael lifts Daisy from the back seat, and she clings to him, her arms around his neck, her face nuzzled into his shoulder. Jealousy stirs in me again, but I fall back a step, so they can go on ahead, Walter flicking open the screen door to let them pass.

In a room at the end of the hall, a twin-sized bed with faded sheets is already made up and waiting for her. Michael tucks her in, and I kneel next to the mattress.

She gazes up at me, her eyes bleary. “Will I become like you?”

I brush a thin strand of hair out of her eyes. “Let’s hope not.”

Her hand unsteady, she reaches out for me and traces what’s left of my meager lifeline. “It’s almost gone now,” she whispers.

I pull away. “Get some rest, all right?” I say, and I’m almost to the door when I hear her again.

“Lucy?” Her voice is frail as ancient bone.

I turn to her. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming back for me.”

I smile. “That’s what we do here,” I say. “We help each other.”