“I just think—he might like me better if you help me pick an outfit, instead of me dressing myself, you know? John doesn’t seem to like my new look.”

“Well, Charlie …” Jessica stopped, choosing her words carefully. “It won’t do either of you any good to pretend nothing has changed,” she said firmly. “Wear what you have on, you look great.”

“You think so?” Charlie said, looking doubtful.

“Yeah,” Jessica said. She brushed past Charlie to go into her room, stepping cautiously past her, and Charlie followed, pausing in the doorway like a vampire waiting for an invitation. Jessica looked at Charlie and was suddenly set at ease, as if their friendship had never been interrupted. Jessica grinned. “So, I mean, are you nervous?” she asked, going to her dresser for her hairbrush, and Charlie came in and sat down on the bed.

“I feel like I have to prove something to him, but I’m not sure what,” she said, tracing the flower design on Jessica’s bedspread. “You were right, by the way.”

Jessica turned around, brushing her hair absently. “He wants to see you tonight. I think that’s a great start,” she offered. “Just let him spend some time with you. He’s been through a lot. Remember, from his perspective, he saw you die, right in front of his eyes.”

Charlie laughed, a soft, forced sound, then was silent. “I’m just worried about him. And I can’t even help him, because”—she broke off—“Jessica, do you remember him telling me something important that night?” Something in her tone changed: it was subtle, just a hint of strain. Jessica kept her expression neutral, pretending not to notice.

“Something important?” Jessica asked.

“Something … that I would remember. Should remember.” She kept her eyes on the bedspread, still tracing the pattern like she was trying to memorize it. Jessica hesitated. She could still see it all, as vivid as the present, though it gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Charlie was trapped in the twisted, broken Freddy suit, with just her arm free; John was holding her hand—Jessica shuddered, that terrible, singular crunching sound echoing in her head.

“Jessica?” Charlie asked, and Jessica nodded briskly.

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know, you and John were alone together for a few minutes. I’m not sure what he said. Why?”

“I think it’s important to him that I remember,” Charlie said, back to tracing the bedspread. Jessica watched her for a moment, suddenly ill at ease in her own bedroom. As if sensing it, Charlie stood and met her eyes.

“Thanks, Jessica,” she said. “Sorry again for breaking in. I mean, I didn’t break in, the door was unlocked—but you know what I mean.”