The fireman held fast, surprisingly strong despite the fact that he was stuck in a wheelchair. “I’m serious. You want to walk into fires, go through school and do it for real.”

“You know,” said Hannah, “you can start fire school at sixteen.”

Fire school? He’d never considered making a career out of his abilities. “I’ll think about it,” said Gabriel.

Nick clapped him on the shoulder again. “No, you’ll do it.”

Layne stared at the ceiling in the emergency room and listened to her parents bicker. For the second time in less than a week.

She was wearing a hospital gown, so they knew her scars were gone.

And unfortunately, it had turned into one more point of argument.

“Well, David,” her mother snapped, “obviously you haven’t been paying attention to the children if you weren’t aware—”

“You weren’t aware, either, Charlotte! Don’t try to tell me about . . .”

Layne put the pillow over her face.

She hadn’t known what to say.

Because she didn’t know how it had happened, either.

The doctors had lots of theories, about growth spurts and skin regrowth, and healthy eating.

Really, they were grasping at straws. Layne let them grasp.

What was she going to say? When I almost died in the barn, this guy saved my life . . .

The pillow was pulled away from her face, and her mother’s heavily made up face smiled down at her through a cloud of some expensive perfume. “Oh, Laynie, I wish you’d told me. Once we finish with this mess”—she waved a manicured hand to indicate the treatment room—“we can go to the mall. I saw the cutest dress the other day and thought, If only Layne didn’t have—”

Layne sat up. The oxygen tube strung around her face pulled tight, but she didn’t care. “No.”

Her mother blinked. “No?”

“No. I like the way I dress. And it’s too late to play mom.”

More of the confused stare. “It’s too late to play—”

“You heard me!” Layne snapped. “I get straight As, and you don’t give a crap. I take care of Simon, and you don’t give a crap. I spent the last ten years trying to get your approval, and you didn’t give a crap. Now that I’m perfect, you want to play mom. Well, I’m not playing. I want you to leave.”

“Layne, I am your mother—”

“Too late.” Layne cut a glance at her father. “Can you make her leave?”

“I can’t make your mother do much of anything.”

Her mother folded her arms. “Layne, I am not listening to this—”

“Go,” Layne hissed. “Or I’m asking the nurse to call a social worker. And I’m going to tell them all about how you ran off with some guy from the country club, and how you don’t show up for visitations, and how you—”

“Layne!”