After another hard squeeze of a hug, she pulled back and stood up, now looking down on him. “We need to do this, Isaac. We need to talk about it. You need to tell your story, out loud, to others. Right now. Tell it to me, tell it to Timon, tell it to Letti. We know they care about us even though they try to act all tough and rough sometimes. We’re in this together and we all know it. So . . .” She reached down and grabbed his hand, then pulled him off the ground to stand close to her. Another hug, another whisper in his ear.

“Will you do this? Please? It’s for you, I promise it’s for you. But it’s also for me. If my mom taught me anything, it’s that we can’t bottle stuff up. We have to talk about it, talk through it. Let others share your burden. Cheesy? Maybe. But not a debate. This has to happen.”

Through all that extrapolating, he wasn’t even sure at first what she meant. Talking? With her, with them, with everyone? Give a speech? About what for Flare’s sake? But finally he thought he understood. Sadina had wanted him to do this for a long time and he’d always clammed up or run away. Both, usually.

But you know what, he thought. Screw it. She’s right and she knows she’s right, the former as annoying as the latter.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine. I’m ready to talk about it. Even with Letti and her big bouncy ball of a giant. The fire’s not dead, yet—let’s gather ’round shall we?” Sadina rolled her eyes at his formal manner.

Throughout this long path to making a decision, Timon and Letti had stood back, kinda watching with interest, maybe curiosity. They couldn’t know what Isaac and Sadina were talking about, but surely they wanted to.

“Come on, then,” Isaac said.

A minute or so passed as everyone got settled, four people around a fire, everyone able to see everyone else. The fire spat and crackled, slowly dying by unleashing waves of heat from the coals and white-hot ash.

“It was my fault,” Isaac began.

Sadina, as predictable as ever, as loving as ever, started to protest but he quieted her with a look.

“You want me to tell the story or you want me to lie? It’s my fault. That’s how I feel. Sometimes. The tiny rational part of my brain knows it’s not true, but the big chunk of dummy brain can’t stop torturing me with it. You’re always preaching that it helps to say things out loud. Well, there ya go.”

“What happened?” Letti asked. She seemed genuine enough.