Sawyer, as me, stands up, in full control of my motor functions. All five-foot-nine of Jake Livingston in his St. Clair Prep uniform—red bow tie, gray sweater vest and slacks—is walking like a zombie toward itself. Smiling evilly, limping like a ghoul. The twisted look makes the face nearly unrecognizable.

I don’t have any help anymore. River’s not here. I have to do this part by myself.

I reach for the ecto-mist, willing it to help me, and it pulls from the spaces in trees, the cracks in the pavement, the inside of crystal rocks, rushing to swim around my hands and arms to promise me strength.

And I start my dance—whipping my arms around my body as my ancestors ground me in gravity and follow my movements. Energy bolts through my shoulders, lungs, chest, hands. I fire the energy at my body in a blast.

It hits the chest of the dummy Jake, and he flies through space, hitting his back on the asphalt, leaving Sawyer as a legless torso floating aimlessly above him.

I close my eyes and vortex into my skin, facing whiplash as my real eyes open to a star-filled sky.

I spring off my hands and knees, thrashing through Sawyer and toward the truck. These moments, where I’m synched with my body, soul, and mind, are so rare.

I dive in through the door and grab the kerosene off the passenger-side floor. My arm twists behind my back, and my legs sweep from underneath me.

I slam the pavement with my ribs and chin as Sawyer’s scream tears through my mind:

RELAX.

I pull down the asphalt, gripping the kerosene so hard my nails dig into my palm around the handle. My neck cracks like a crisp lobster. My head picks up the grime of the road, as if it wants to get dirty, and pain explodes through my network of bones.

I remember . . . in the bathroom, I tore through his being with the strength of my will.

You can beat him, comes a whisper through the darkness, an echo of assurance from the ecto-mist. It glows above my knuckles and fastens there, like weapons of glittering blue brass. Fight, it whispers—a choir of voices in perfect harmony.

I use my free arm to pull myself farther down the road.

“GET OUT!!!” The words erupt madly.

Gunshots explode through my brain and flash white across my vision, and through the noise, a thought is forming, like a stage whisper.

Circle, it says. Circle, circle, circle, circle, circle . . .

“A circle,” I respond.

A circle, they command. Close, close, close, close . . . close the circle.

I don’t ask questions. The mist has never guided me wrong, and it never would. I get on my knees and skid across the twinkling rocks in the blacktop, spilling the kerosene in a circle.

CIRCLE . . . CIRCLE . . . CIRCLE.

Glug-glug-glug-glug-glug—the clear fluid spatters out of the bottle.