I spin around at my memory-self’s desperate scream. “Theodore, where are you?”

Riley hasn’t followed our mother’s order; he hasn’t dragged me back inside. Instead, he’s frozen beside me, stunned into stillness by the intensity of the fire.

“THEO!”

I want to shake my younger self. Why on earth am I screaming for this Theo person? If he’s trapped in the house, even if he can hear my cries, it’s not as if he’ll be able to—

“Lyss! Help me—please!”

Everything in me seizes, my eyes wide and unbelieving at the sight of the person who just appeared out of thin air before us.

It’s Smith.

A younger version of him, but definitely him. Only, there are no scars on him. His skin is completely free of burns.

My gaze flicks to the real Smith, only to find him watching the scene with something akin to horror.

“Where are you, Theo?” my younger self screams at him. “Tell me where you are!”

I spin back in time to watch the projection of Theo—of Smith—point up to the roof.

“I’m in the attic! I tried to get outside, but the flames—”

My younger self doesn’t wait to hear any more before taking off toward the flames.

“Lyss, don’t,” Riley cries, lunging forward.

“No!” she yells, and light flares from her before a wave of air shoves him backward, keeping him at a safe distance from the fire she’s now steps away from reaching.

“Alyssa! NO!”

She ignores our parents’ screams and instead cries, “Protect me!” as she runs straight into the burning building. More light flares, and the flames that are devouring everything in sight bounce right off her flesh as she sprints through the inferno.

Kael, Smith, and I run after her, the three of us lost for words as we become enveloped in the blaze. I can feel the overwhelming heat, can barely breathe through the smoke, but I’m protected from the full impact of the fire, unable to be injured inside my own memory. The same is true for Kael and Smith, though the latter still looks as if he’s about to faint.

“Theo! Theo!” my younger self is screaming as she takes the stairs two at a time. I can hardly hear her over the crackle of the flames, over the sounds of the house falling apart around us. “THEODORE!”

We reach the top floor, the fire even more powerful here. Hot air rises, I remember—as do flames. I don’t know what Smith was thinking, going to the attic. He should have gone down, not up. But, looking around, I wonder if perhaps he didn’t have a choice. If perhaps he was lucky to make it to the attic at all.