At some point in her story, every true heroine realizes that she is fundamentally unlike other people. She may be the chosen one (we’re going to choose ourselves) or have trained for many years, or be merely damaged, or merely strange. She may have had an accident involving radioactive material or nuclear waste. She may have natural abilities. She may be molded by circumstance. But I have had to realize that no matter how much I desire to be different, I am not. That I am, finally, just like everyone else. I cannot be the heroine, even of my own story. (Is that what this is?) I could tell you that it was me, and not Janet, who pulled away first. But it wasn’t. I could tell you that I was still ready to leap, even then, to face the fall. But I wasn’t. You know this. My body seeks safety every time. My body only follows.

I unclasped my hand from Serena’s. If I never saw my father again, fine. I would live. I crawled backward and sat down heavily on the rock. “I don’t need to levitate,” I said. “I’m okay with the idea of not levitating.” I felt completely sober.

“And here I thought you really believed,” Serena said. I had been thinking the same thing, which is what hurt the most.

“Come on, Serena,” Janet said. “This isn’t you.”

“Is it not?” Serena said, as if amused. She was still looking at me. “I know what you did, Olivia,” she said. “Even after I told you what might happen.”

Janet stiffened at my side. “What’s she talking about?” she said.

“It was an accident,” I said. How long had she known? Was that why she had brought us here, to the edge of the world? Was it me she wanted to throw off?

“He told me all about it, you know,” Serena said. But she didn’t look sad, saying this, or angry. She looked hungry. “He was trying to make me jealous. But it didn’t work—at least, not the way he wanted.” She smiled, her hair whipping out behind her.

No, it wasn’t revenge. Now I think she just needed more, as she always did: more sensation, more power, more meaning. She wasn’t satisfied with tummo. She wasn’t satisfied with Luke. She was tired of waiting, of wanting, of opening her eyes and finding herself still on the ground. She had to change something, anything, even if the change was a violent one. Especially then. I’m not saying I don’t understand.

“Come to us, Laurel,” Janet called. “Come back.”

“Okay, Laurel,” Serena said. “You and me.”

Laurel looked back at Janet, and then at me, and then at Serena.

“Wait,” she said.

“Laurel,” Serena said. “Don’t you love me?”

“Yes,” Laurel said. She had started to cry. “But let’s go down. Please let’s go down.”