I might not be able to save everybody. I’m starting to accept that fact.

But I can still warn them.

Especially the people who mean the most to me.

I pull onto the street heading north, then turn right onto St. Charles Avenue. Cars are flowing smoothly tonight, but tomorrow, the only traffic allowed on this road will be floats and the tractors pulling them. Driving along this section of the parade route feels creepy. Ominous. I’m visiting the scene of a crime—before it happens.

I don’t stay on St. Charles for long. After a few blocks, I’ve entered the Lower Garden District. I turn right and wend my way through the neighborhood’s narrow, leafy streets. I stop in front of a terraced town house, beige with lavender shutters.

It belongs to Vanessa and Lucas.

I cut the engine. My dashboard clock blinks from 11:46 to 11:47.

Which gives me pause.

Am I really going to show up on her doorstep like this, this late at night, when her buffoon of a husband is probably there, too? Is this really the smartest move?

I exhale. I drum my fingers on my steering wheel. I shut my eyes again.

Before I can change my mind, I get out of my car and walk up the path.

I ring the doorbell, wait, ring it again. A third time.

The house looks dark inside. Maybe they’re not home?

Then a second-floor light flips on. The bedroom, as I fondly recall.

I hear footsteps creaking down the stairs. Locks and bolts being turned.

The door swings open.

Lucas is standing there, wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxer shorts and a bleary-eyed, indignant look.

“Rooney …?” he asks. “What the hell do you think—”

“Is Vanessa here?” I ask without hesitation. “I gotta talk to her.”

He tries to puff up his chest to look intimidating, but he only looks pathetic.

“Now? It’s practically midnight! She’s asleep. My wife is asleep. So unless you—”

“It’s urgent,” I say. “Sorry.”

I take a step forward into the house and give him a firm shove out of my way. He nearly topples sideways into a blue-and-white vase on the small entry table near the door.

“Hey! Don’t you dare come inside my—”

“Vanessa!” I call. “Vanessa? Wake up!”

“Caleb?”

I follow her wispy voice to the top of the stairs. She’s wearing a knee-length plain white T-shirt, her hair in a messy bun. She scurries down to me, frightened.

“What’s going on?” she asks, worried. “Is everything all right?”

“No!” he interrupts. “Everything is definitely not all—”

“Would you shut the hell up for one second?” I demand.

Then I turn back to her, softening my tone.

“Listen to me,” I say, the words tumbling out. “I have to tell you something. And I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important—and if I … if I didn’t care about you.”