“Pink?” she asks, looking from the paint to Glenn like she’s about to shut down this whole operation.

“I love it,” I jump in, even though I’m not sure that’s entirely true. The hot-pink paint is loud and wild, and it wouldn’t have been my first color choice, but it’s different—and that, I like.

Cora starts to say something but stops, clutching Sara’s shoes to her chest as she walks out. The lock on her door clicks softly as Glenn goes to gather some old blankets and tarps from the garage.

He throws them over the carpet and furniture while Piper and I take down the Broadway posters. Glenn shows me how to use a putty knife to scrape off the butterfly wallpaper runner and tells us to only paint up the wall halfway since he doesn’t want me on a ladder and Piper can only reach so high from her wheelchair.

Piper transfers her Fire Mix to my phone and we paint for a solid hour to the sounds of every fire song ever, from Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain” to “Great Balls of Fire.” When we reach a song that starts with way too much synthesizer, Piper stops painting to sing along, belting out lyrics about a girl who flies, wearing her scars like wings.

“What song is this?” I yell over her singing.

“Called ‘Phoenix in a Flame’ by some band called Atticus. This is basically my anthem now. Even set it as my ringtone.”

Piper sings while I turn sideways to try to get the right angle on the butterflies with my only good hand wielding the putty knife. I can use my toe-hand as a makeshift pincer, but even after months of PT with Terry the Torturer, it’s still too weak to grip and scrape at the same time.

Her anthem finished, Piper’s having her own struggles, trying to reach the wall without ramming her wheelchair into it. She finally gives up and slides to the ground, scooting backward along the tarp while she paints.

“So, Monday’s the big day, huh? Back to pajamas and days without seeing the sun?” she says.

“It’s not quite that pathetic.”

I finally loosen a section of wallpaper with the scraper and tug it away from the wall. The paper rips down the middle, slicing the butterflies in half.

Piper dabs paint into the corner.

“If the sad sack fits, my friend. But tell me this: Is school so bad?”

I look down at her while inching the next butterfly off the wall, trying to keep at least a portion of it intact.

“I ate lunch alone, hiding behind stage curtains, on the first day.”

“Ouch.” She sucks in air between her teeth. “That is rough.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Life is just easier without constantly being reminded of what I am.”

“Who you are.”

“Same thing.”