Hawthorn was running away from the hermit’s tree, hell-bent on leaving before he got to her. “You are as lovely as twenty sunsets put together!” he yelled at her fast-retreating back.

She turned, dark eyebrows rising above the silver frames of her glasses. “You said it would be something people don’t know.”

“You’re as sad as twenty birds in a tiny cage,” he added.

“You said it would be something I don’t know.”

Hawthorn walked away before the hermit could really figure her out.

Rush was sitting on the ground, ankles crossed. She looked up at the hermit, letting him gaze down into her blue eyes as if he was trying to do a trick dive.

“You’re a little bit in love,” he said, the words dipped in apology.

“With who?” Imogen asked, but Rush didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

“Your turn,” the hermit said to Imogen, shaking her off the subject.

Imogen met the hermit in the middle of the clearing. Instead of staring back at him, she looked at the trees. The ground. The tiny patterns in the skin on the backs of her hands, the ones you had to squint for, the ones that looked like shattered glass.

“You’re afraid of your own shadow,” the hermit said.

Danny: Now

Idon’t think the hermit’s coming,” I say. But it’s more than that. This place feels emptied out, scraped.

“We have to wait,” Hawthorn says. “He’s coming back.”

“He should already be back,” June says.

Lelia is looking around inside the tree, as if the hermit might be hiding somewhere. Everyone else stands outside, waiting uncomfortably as she kneels and checks the little pile of clothes, dampness gnawing its way up her jeans. She puts both palms flat against the ground. “I don’t like this water.”

“Why?” Hawthorn asks.

I can hear how hard she’s working to keep her voice steady.

“It doesn’t belong.” Lelia lifts her fingers to her lips, licks them. “It’s . . . it’s salt water.”

“Please don’t mess with me right now,” June whispers. “We saw a dead body the other night. This is not the right time, okay?”

“I’m not making anything up!” Lelia snaps. “I’m paying attention, being present. That’s what witches are supposed to do, right?” She glances at Hawthorn for backup, but Hawthorn has turned away from the rest of us, her hands snagged in her hair, the muscles of her back clenched like she can’t find a way to breathe out.

It occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to the woods with the people who were there when Sebastian died. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know that the Grays are afraid.

I text my mom.

I’m alive.

She drops the exclamation points. She starts to question.

When will you be home?

Are you still with those friends?