“Feeling better?” Aunt Tilda asked as she tidied the room.

She’d already made a chicken casserole, given his sister a bath, read her three books, and put her to bed. Aunt Tilda was a better parent than he was, but the demon was wrong about how that made Max feel. He wasn’t relieved to relinquish responsibility for Chloe, at least not in that way, and he didn’t resent the day she was born (he resented the day his father died—same day, different event). In fact, Max was relieved Chloe was finally getting the parenting she deserved, the kind he’d had before the explosion. For the first time in a long time, he and Chloe were both being taken care of, and Max appreciated that.

That meant the demon could be wrong.

“I’m as good as I can be,” Max responded, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders.

“That’s all we can ask for,” said Aunt Tilda.

Vera entered the room, her hair wet, forming black ringlets around her face. She was wearing purple plaid pajama pants and a white tank top, and she looked, well, really pretty. How had he not noticed this before? How did the whole school not notice?

Max was surprised the demon didn’t reveal those thoughts, because he had them. All the time.

“You’ve got color in your cheeks,” Vera said.

Yeah, I’m sure I do. Her skin smelled of vanilla, which reminded him of Delilah. She wore a similar lotion. When was the last time he replied to Delilah’s texts? Or spoke to any of his friends? He imagined the essay he’d write at the start of school in September: “On my summer vacation, I helped to perform an exorcism.”

Christ, I’m all over the place.

“Sorry I freaked back there,” he muttered, staring at his hands.

“Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine. That’s your…” She didn’t finish her sentence. Because it was too awful to say. That’s your mom. That person, saying those things, with that voice, is your mother.

“How come I heard my dad today?” he asked.

“That’s not your dad. It’s just messing with your head.”

“It’s working.”

Vera ran her fingers through her damp hair, her cheeks dewy from the shower. Then she exchanged a curious look with Aunt Tilda, who finished folding an afghan and placed it on the back of an easy chair. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Vera lowered herself beside him. “I had a vision at your house.”

“A vision?” His eyes crinkled.

“I’m not really sure what it was, I’ve stopped trying to understand, but I saw something.” Her voice was low and sounded as confused as he felt. “It’s never happened to me before. It was different than the dreams, the sleepwalking. When your mom, when it lifted its arms, when it took the shape of those wings and the light flooded in, it was like I was hit inside my mind. A scene unfolded.”

She peered at him, seeming worried about his reaction. Because he was the weakling; he was the one who went into shock and couldn’t handle what was happening. He tugged at his knotted neck, glancing at the floor and realizing he cared a lot about what she thought of him.