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Back Scars Like Wings Save as PDF
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. What’s next onyour reading list?

Flipping off the universe to the beat of her fire music.

How did I not see she was waging her own war against the darkness?

More important, who’s helping her fight now?

Who’s helping her choose to live?

A wind shakes the leaves of the maple tree, and I picture myself running to Dad as he gets out of his car. He tosses me high into the air, then wraps me in his arms as I fall.

I laugh and scream, “Again!” I have no fear—no doubt.

Someone will be there.

I stand and brush the ash from my pants. “We need to go!” I yell to Dr. Layne.

“Take as long as you—”

“The house is gone. I get it.” I look once more at the place I called home. “But my best friend is still here, and right now, she needs someone to catch her.”

44

Dr. Layne and I stop by the school on our way to the hospital. She helps me comb through the grass for the gold phoenix.

“I was such a jerk,” I mumble, pushing aside a clump of newly mowed remnants. “I should have been there for her.”

“Well, you can be there now. Is this it?” She holds up the phoenix, whose right wing has been clipped, probably by the steel blade of a lawn mower.

I run my finger along the jagged, broken wing. “What if she hates me?”

Dr. Layne stands up and reaches down to help me to my feet. “Be there anyway.”

Piper’s parents huddle with a white coat when I walk into the third-floor hospital hallway. Her mom cuts off the doctor and rushes to hug me. She tells me they’ve moved Piper out of intensive care but still have her on fluids and surveillance. She winces when she says these last words, like the thought of her daughter needing to be watched round the clock physically pains her.

“Can I see her?”

Her mom nods. “But, Ava, she’s heavily sedated right now and very tired, so I’m not sure she’ll even know you’re there.”

I pull back the curtain to the room, which is dead quiet except for the beeping of the machine in time with Piper’s heart. Behind the curtain, Piper is small and young and impossibly fragile. The massive bed swallows her up, and I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.

I pull up a chair and lay my hand on hers. It’s bruised beneath the surface of the skin, where some nurse with no skills tried to insert her IV.