The five of them have stayed in loose touch, mostly by text. This is only the second time they’ve all been together since that terrible day. The first was a few days into the new year, when they were honored by the mayor for bringing an end to what is now called the Siege of Fairgate. Miranda thinks it sounds medieval, like what happened here involved castle walls and boiling oil and heads on spikes. Maybe it did. Just more modern versions of those things.

To a chorus of thank-yous from the others, she sets the tray down next to two red roses, each wrapped in green florist’s paper, that are sitting in front of Grace.

Javier reaches for his plain black coffee, while Amina finds her peppermint tea. Grace picks up her coffee. Parker, like Miranda, ordered a latte. Lifting it in her direction, he gives her a smile.

Even though Parker is the one Miranda talks to the most, she doesn’t know how to categorize their relationship. Being with him reminds her of the worst and best parts of herself. Of how far she has come from that afternoon in his basement. But there are times she doesn’t want to be reminded of who she used to be. Of what she went through.

“It’s like it never happened,” Miranda says as she looks around the space.

“There’s not even a plaque.” Amina unclips her Culpeppers name tag.

Parker shrugs. “It’s not like they could just tear down the mall and start from scratch.” It’s an old discussion between him and Miranda, one that began in the hospital after her dad told her the mall was already planning on reopening.

All of them had spent the night on the same ward. Grace had a concussion. Javier underwent surgery to clean up his wounds and stitch them closed. Parker’s nose and finger and two of his ribs had been broken when the other hostages were forced to beat him, and he had cracked his tailbone when he slipped and fell. Even Amina had been hospitalized as a precaution.

Although Miranda had been sure that she was either blind or dying—or both—it turned out that Gabriel Bond’s bullet had only grazed her scalp. An inch lower, and the bullet would have directly hit her brain, which was what she thought had happened. Blood had filled her eyes, leaving her temporarily blinded.

In the ambulance, she kept asking the crew if she was going to die. They said no, but it seemed liked the kind of faux reassurance you would offer someone who was dying.

But it turned out to be the truth. After she was cleaned up, Miranda could see again. Before stitching the wound closed, the doctor had shaved a spot on the top of her head bare, leaving what looked like a two-inch-wide part. Five months later, it’s filled in with short hair.