She points first to the one with the scar and then to the one who still won’t look at me or anybody else. Not that I’ll remember which is which. In ten seconds, they’ll look mostly identical to me again, their faces, rosy-cheeked and sun-kissed, bleeding together. I doubt Rochester can tell them apart either. They’re just those girls waiting in his bed. No more, no less.

Only I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to treat them as if they’re alike, as if all girls are simply interchangeable.

“Bellflower, Vervain, Rowan,” I repeat, already trying to remind myself. Then I hesitate. “Are those names you gave yourselves or names he gave to you?”

Bellflower’s dark eyes flick up at me. “Is there a difference?”

“You know there is,” I say, and another motorcycle revs past us on the crowded street. A Harley-Davidson probably. A Hells Angel. They’re common as ants around these parts, their brows always knit, their fists always ready, each of them convinced they have all the reason in the world to be angry. But then, every angry man always thinks that, doesn’t he?

Rowan leans against the passenger door, her cotton frock sagging around the collar. “It’s not here. He said it would be here, but it’s not.”

Vervain shoots her a look that could stop time. “You always give up too easily.”

“Yes, you do,” Bellflower says, her smile never fading. “Besides, we just haven’t looked hard enough.”

At that, she reaches around the steering wheel and snatches the key from the ignition. I lunge for her, but I’m not nearly quick enough, everything about me as sluggish and hazy as the bay fog. Death always makes me like this, hungry as hell, but a little dizzy too. Like sipping one too many glasses of champagne.

The three girls dart toward the back of the car, their giggles rank as garbage. The sky tilts above me, as I heave open the door and stumble out. Across the nearby field, I search for the wolf, for Michael, for any ally at all, but they’re long gone. I’m alone in a crowd of a thousand people.

The girls have gathered like euphoric pagans around the tail end of the Buick.

“I can already hear him,” Vervain marvels, as Bellflower fumbles with the key, shoving it hard into the lock.

The trunk flips open, and as I stagger toward them, we all see it at the same instant. The interior has turned to ash, the upholstery curled away into nothing, the heat of him nearly melting through the chassis. Smoke in their eyes, the girls reach in and yank him from the darkness, fighting one another for who gets to hold him. Bellflower wins. In all their fights, I bet Bellflower always wins.