Vera peered at him, her head tilted like she was trying to translate his words from another language.

“If the demon could be wrong about that, then it could be wrong about a lot of things. It could be wrong about you,” Max insisted.

Vera’s gaze turned to the carpet and Max could see the endless questions swirling behind her chocolate eyes. Somehow Vera was so certain in the abilities of her parents, the priest, and a group of random strangers the church was assembling, yet she was unsure of herself. Since the day they started speaking, Vera repeated again and again that she wasn’t special. Now she was having visions and dreams—that Max truly believed—while remaining remarkably calm in a house with the devil.

She had to realize how amazing she was. Max did.

But it seemed that after seventeen years of being treated like the outcast, Vera actually believed that she didn’t deserve to be noticed, that she lacked any special gifts. In reality, it was always girls like her, the overlooked ones, the misjudged ones, who changed the world.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Explosion

In a far-too-silent split-level home, a father watches his son. The child lies in bed, much too still. The time has come. The mother clutches his tiny hand, indigo veins popping beneath his nearly translucent skin. They are waiting on the edge of an hourglass, all the sand nearly slipped through. They pray. They beg.

He’s only had twelve years on this Earth. That’s not enough time. There’s never enough time.

The mother’s eyes are closed, hand clenched to her heaving chest, slick with tears.

The father’s lips are pressed in a firm line. If he parts them, he’ll scream. He’ll howl. He might never stop.

His boy gets worse. The lights dim inside him; his soul flickers on a low wattage. This is wrong, all wrong. His breath grows shallow. Is his chest still moving? Yes, the father thinks. The machine still beeps. They need the machine. He hears it in his nightmares. He wakes sopped in sweat with the eerie tone of the dreaded flatline ringing in his ears.

The home-care nurse says they must prepare. It’s weeks now. Maybe days.

They’ve done nothing wrong. This child has done nothing wrong. What kind of a God would do this?

Then he remembers: a friend from Chicago, years ago. He got a miracle. A dark, but oh-so-worth-it, miracle.

The father returns with a gift, telling tales of its power and beauty. He says it can heal.

They’ll try anything.

He sets the statue of the angel by the boy’s bed. Its wings point toward the heavens while the skeleton’s hands clutch the skull carved atop a torch, its unlit flame pointing at his son’s pale cheeks. Dark tears stain the angel’s face, matching the mood in the room. The air is stagnant from sealed windows and growing despair, yet plaid sheets are pulled high to the boy’s chin. The mother fears he’ll catch cold. She bathes him daily. She brushes his hair. She cannot handle this.