Maren was certain she wasn’t, though she couldn’t say precisely why. It had something to do with the fact that the woman hadn’t given her plant any water when it was clearly dying of thirst. The way she pretended not to recognize Maren. The angry sharpness of her voice.

Step toe toe heel step went Maren’s bare feet under the coffee table, trying to keep up with lovely, glittering Imani on the screen. Ten days. She still had ten days to cure Hallie.

“It’s also the most expensive facility.” Maren’s dad hefted himself off the couch and headed for the kitchen.

“There’s a mac and cheese in the freezer,” said Maren’s mom. “Sorry I didn’t cook, but I did manage to pick up some overtime next week.”

The long-term centers were all at least a half hour away and not on the bus line. If both of her parents were working all the time, nobody would be able to drive Maren to visit Hallie. She wished they could bring Hallie home and take care of her themselves—she’d let her have their shared bedroom to herself so all of her machines could fit. Maren would be happy to sleep on the couch. Or the floor. Or outside in a tent.

Maren didn’t know where her family would go if they lost their house because of medical bills. Lishta’s apartment only had one bedroom. Maybe they’d have to move to Virginia, where her other grandmother lived, but Maren wasn’t sure she could stand living in an utterly magicless town. And how would they move Hallie? Could they put her on a plane in her bed? Would they have to fold her into a wheelchair? Would they have to leave her here?

“Gran-Gran’s been paying me,” said Maren. “You can have that money, too.”

Her mom’s worried frown softened. “That’s very kind, Mare, but you keep it. Use it for school stuff.”

Panic zapped through Maren’s chest. There were still four days left of July, and she was pretending September didn’t exist. She’d lost Amos, and she dreaded going back to that school full of teasing kids alone. Maren turned off the television. She couldn’t stomach watching anyone be sparkly and captivating and perfect anymore.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, even though it was only seven thirty.

“Night, sweetie,” murmured her mom, buried in another pamphlet.

* * *

Hallie’s side of the room had always been a chaotic mess. Every morning she slept until the last minute, threw on clothes from the floor, and dashed out the door with a granola bar. Now her bed had been meticulously made, her books lined up on the shelves instead of piled on her bedside table. Her clothes were all folded and back in her dresser, her shoes lined up in precise rows in the closet. Maren hated it.