Jared thought it through quickly. He was the best, as Jeb had said, because he could see what had to be done and do it fast. I heard the steely sound of the knife coming out of the sheath.

“Be very careful. Not too deep.”

“You want to do it?”

He inhaled sharply. “No.”

“Okay.”

I took the ugly knife. It had a heavy handle and was very sharp; it came to a tapered point at the tip.

I didn’t let myself think about it. I didn’t want to give myself a chance to be a coward. The arm, not the leg—that’s all I paused to decide. My knees were scarred. I didn’t want to have to hide that, too.

I held my left arm out; my hand was shaking. I braced it against the door and then twisted my head so that I could bite down on the headrest. I held the knife’s handle awkwardly but tightly in my right hand. I pressed the point against the skin of my forearm so I wouldn’t miss. Then I closed my eyes.

Jared was breathing too hard. I had to be fast or he would stop me.

Just pretend it’s a shovel opening the ground, I told myself.

I jammed the knife into my arm.

The headrest muffled my scream, but it was still too loud. The knife fell from my hand—jerking sickeningly out from the muscle—and then clunked against the floor.

“Wanda!” Jared rasped.

I couldn’t answer yet. I tried to choke back the other screams I felt coming. I’d been right not to do this before driving.

“Let me see!”

“Stay there,” I gasped. “Don’t move.”

I heard the blanket rustling behind me despite my warning. I pulled my left arm against my body and yanked the door open with my right hand. Jared’s hand brushed my back as I half fell out the door. It wasn’t a restraint. It was comfort.

“I’ll be right back,” I coughed out, and then I kicked the door shut behind me.

I stumbled across the lot, fighting nausea and panic. They seemed to balance each other out—one keeping the other from taking control of my body. The pain wasn’t too bad—or rather, I couldn’t feel it as much anymore. I was going into shock. Too many kinds of pain, too close together. Hot liquid rolled down my fingers and dripped to the pavement. I wondered if I could move those fingers. I was afraid to try.

The woman behind the reception desk—middle-aged, with dark chocolate skin and a few silver threads in her black hair—jumped to her feet when I lurched through the automatic doors.

“Oh, no! Oh, dear!” She grabbed a microphone, and her next words echoed from the ceiling, magnified. “Healer Knits! I need you in reception! This is an emergency!”