“Make it right!” someone called from the crowd, and the exorcist nodded approvingly.

“Save his soul!” a woman cried, and on the tail of that, another shouted, “Cleanse him!”

I groaned as similar cries broke out all around me and Adam slumped on the dais. The camera zoomed in on his face, and I read defeat in his eyes as surely as I’d ever read his incomprehension of decimals or his affection for my sister.

The exorcist turned to face him and asked the “demon” if he had any final words before the soul he’d “stolen” was commended back into the well for the common good, purified by holy flames.

Adam took a deep breath. Then he shouted my sister’s name.

Chills raced up my spine and the world tilted around me; I was knocked off balance by the desperation in his plea.

The exorcist nodded, and two others stepped forward, unscrewing the lids from their canisters. The crowd gasped, then went virtually silent, determined not to miss a moment of the brutal spectacle.

Outrage seethed within me, demanding action. I could not just stand there while they set my friend and neighbor—the father of my unborn niece or nephew—on fire.

But there was nothing I could do or say without putting even more people in danger. Including Mellie and her baby.

The fake exorcists dumped both canisters of gasoline over Adam, and several people in the crowd gasped, as if they hadn’t expected that to actually happen. As if they’d thought the whole thing was a warning, or a prank that had finally gone too far.

Adam screamed as gasoline ran into his eyes and his mouth and every open cut on his body.

On the inside, I screamed with him. On the outside, I clutched handfuls of my uniform pants and clenched my jaw shut with staggering effort.

Then the screen shifted to a new angle to show the lead exorcist kneeling next to a little girl at the front of the crowd, still dressed in her school uniform, blond pigtails brushing her shoulders.

With a jolt of shock, I recognized Elena, from my kindergarten class, just an instant before the exorcist put a match in her small hand. He helped her strike the tip against the side of the box, and for a moment, like the rest of the live audience, I was transfixed by the glow of that tiny flame.

Then the exorcist stood and demonstrated a tossing motion for Elena. The men with the canisters stepped down from the dais and onto the sidewalk. And five-year-old Elena Phillips threw the lit match onto the gas-drenched stones.

Fire consumed Adam and most of the dais in the span of a single heartbeat. Flames masked his ruined face, but could not mute his screams or the crackle of his crisping skin, captured by multiple microphones and broadcast all over the country. He hunched forward, futilely trying to protect the most vulnerable parts of his body as smoke rose and disappeared into the rapidly darkening sky.