“ ‘Somewhere—’ ” Halfway through the word, my unfamiliar voice cracks, falling short of the high note.

I touch the spot just below my voice box where my skin puckers around my tracheotomy scar. I clear my throat, fearing the smoke and tubes and flames changed more than my skin.

“It’s been too long,” I whisper.

“I have an idea!” Asad says. “An old theater trick for stage fright.”

“I am not imagining you in your underwear.”

“Only if you want to, sicko,” he says with a wink. “But that’s not part of the exercise. For real. Close your eyes.”

I blink out the light.

“Now, imagine you’re anywhere you want. Alone. At Abravanel Hall. On Broadway—”

“Hiding behind stage curtains,” Piper adds.

“You be quiet over there,” I say in the direction of her voice.

With my eyes closed, I go somewhere else in my mind.

Somewhere without photoshopped scars and wigs and empty seats around the dinner table.

Somewhere safe.

A place where a song scares away nightmares.

I’m in my bed, tucked in tight, while my mom sings about blue skies and rainbows, her voice soft and sure.

Quiet and unsteady, my own is barely recognizable.

Somewhere over the rainbow—

I peek down at Piper, who motions for me to keep going. I shut my eyes tight and force my voice to swell as I sing about blue skies and wishing on stars.

My bedroom floor rumbles as the garage door opens. Dad’s home. Mom’s voice lulls me to sleep as Dad locks the front door behind him.

My voice crescendos in the space, filling my head, my ears, my memory with words about a place where troubles melt and bluebirds soar. Air fills my lungs. Tingles snap across my skin.

Waking me up.

For a time-bending second, I’m me again.

I fall asleep, safely wrapped up in my family in our corner of the world. We’re home, together—what harm could ever reach us here?

My voice whispers.

Birds fly over the rainbow

Why, then,

Oh, why

Can’t I?

Salt on my lips tells me I’m crying, but I don’t open my eyes. Not yet. I soak in this moment.

The feeling of the stage and the music and the electricity in my skin.

The sound of a forgotten voice.

The memory of home.

When I open my eyes, Piper holds up her unburned arm. “Goose bumps. And if I had hair on my other arm, it would be standing, too.”

Asad stares at me, his mouth slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Explain to me why you are on crew again?”

I point to my face, but he keeps shaking his head.

“No, seriously, Ava. You are better than most of those cast girls. You should try out.”

I gather up the paintbrushes, my shaking hands clinking the wooden handles together.

“Well, even if I wanted to—which I absolutely do not—tryouts are over.”