I tap on my own profile, where the picture of Sara and me is still my final post. I open my camera roll on my phone to the last picture—Piper and me at the wig store, her cheek against my hot-pink hair.

Before I can second-guess myself, I upload it to my wall. #scarsistersforlife #keepflying

I want to say something else, something witty and personal and perfect. Something right. But the words don’t come.

I tap submit.

An instant later, the photo appears on my homepage, and just like that, the picture-perfect illusion of Ava Before the Fire is gone.

I tag Piper and shut the screen before anyone can comment.

Without Piper, life hobbles along in a pseudo normal. Homework. Play practice. Failed attempts to catch Kenzie. Cora signs me up to take the SAT, and a huge book called The College Application Survival Guide replaces the Burn Survivor Quarterly on her nightstand. She even starts dropping hints about visiting a campus or two this summer.

End-of-the-year fever spikes at Crossroads. The hallways are so congested with prom posters advertising the Night of Your Life! and gaggles of girls signing yearbooks that no one notices the pictures and cards shedding off Piper’s locker after a few weeks. I watch as someone tramples a picture of her between classes without even seeing it, just like they don’t see the Piper-size void walking next to me.

I can face the hallway alone now. I just don’t want to.

Just like I don’t want to get up on that stage without Piper in the audience. During dress rehearsal, I stand on my mark in my hideously pink Glinda dress, squinting into the spotlight. The play is in one week. This will be my first performance without Mom and Dad. What if Piper isn’t there, either?

Every night, I fall asleep to Piper’s anthem about turning scars into wings. But as the play zooms closer on my calendar, I begin to doubt I can fix anything for either of us. I ask Cora to drive me to group.

“I think I need it,” I say.

In the spacious rec room, our circle of four seems especially small. I stop outside the ring of chairs, staring at where Piper should be.

“She’s coming back,” Dr. Layne says. She puts her arm around me, pulling me into the circle. “Her place here will be ready when she is.”

Piper’s empty spot glares at me as we talk about the power of love. How we need it. How we show it. How we deserve it.

For once, when it’s my turn to share, I talk. I tell the group about how I’m trying to help Piper by exposing Kenzie.

“I blame myself for not helping Piper before, and I’m sure she does, too. But I’m going to fix all of this for her.”