Then, one morning (at least I think it’s morning, judging by the sound of the food cart and the smell of eggs), Piper’s there.

“Ava?”

I don’t know why, but I revert to one of my postfire avoidance tactics. I pretend to be asleep, making my breathing extra heavy and long as Piper parks her wheelchair next to me, banging into my bed rail.

“Well, I wanted to tell you some things, and maybe you being asleep will make it easier,” she says.

I stay quiet as Piper draws in a big breath.

“Before you got here, my life sucked. I mean, it kind of still sucks, but it like colossally blew the big one.” She pauses, breathing heavily. “You were right: I pushed everyone away after the crash. I was the one who cut out Kenzie. But I knew she blamed me because I should have been driving. I blame me, too.”

Her voice quavers. I know I should say something, but I’m not sure what.

“I’ve messed up everyone’s lives. My parents treat me like I’m a broken piece of their perfect puzzle. My friends all hate me. So I’m a pariah at school, and a parasite at home, always needing to be carried and helped. Do you know what they call handicapped people? Invalids. In. Valids. Which sometimes doesn’t feel entirely In. Accurate. But then you came, and for the first time since the crash, I didn’t feel like just a leech. For once, I felt good instead of guilty.” Her voice shakes more, and she pauses. “So I’m not trying to run your life, Ava. But don’t forget that I need you in mine.”

Her breath gets closer, and I imagine her leaning over the bed rail.

“I have one last thing to tell you, and this may be the hardest to hear,” she says. “You are truly the most terrible fake sleeper I’ve ever met. Seriously the worst. How you even got into that play with this level of acting skills is beyond me.”

I smile despite my best efforts to stay stone-faced.

She squeezes my hand. I squeeze hers back.

But I don’t say anything—not because I can’t, but because I don’t have to.

Best friends never do.

At the end of the week, Dr. Sharp removes my stitches.

“Let there be light,” he says.

I blink rapidly, a thick gel still blurring my vision.

The light floods my retinas, washing away the darkness.

Dr. Sharp comes into focus first, then Glenn and Cora, who leans into my range of vision with a big smile.

Dr. Sharp pokes around with his cold fingertips, talking about how my vision will improve, and how the pink around the edges will fade but I have to be extra vigilant with the tube of thick gel he gives me.