Smith is alone in the room, lying on a sterile bed, his face as white as the sheets, his gray eyes shadowed and focused on his hands, both of which are wrapped in bandages. His glasses are missing, making him appear more like a child than an adolescent.

“Theo?” my younger self says, her voice barely a whisper, as if she fears startling him.

His troubled gaze jerks up, revealing the deep red scarring on one side of his face—the burns healed, but having left their mark.

My younger self’s steps falter as she sees the damage, but it’s an imperceptible movement, difficult to catch. She’s careful not to let Smith see, and continues striding over until she’s sitting on his bed, where she picks up one of his bandaged hands with her own.

“What are these for?” she asks, touching the bandage, as if unsure what else to say.

“So I don’t have to see what’s beneath them.”

His voice—it’s like broken glass. I’m not sure if it’s from inhaling so much smoke, or from the nightmares lingering in his eyes.

“Well, that’s just silly,” she replies, but I can see the desperation in her gaze. The dread. The panic. “Everyone knows scars tell the best stories.”

“And the worst ones, too,” Smith says quietly, looking down again.

Throughout all this, Riley stands watch at the door, monitoring but not interfering.

Smith clears his throat. His voice still sounds broken when he says, “Thank you, Lyssie. For saving me.”

She waves a hand as if it were nothing. “You would have done the same for me.” Her eyes narrow pointedly as she adds, “And you can pay me back by realizing how stupid your idea is.”

Smith looks to Riley, who shifts uncomfortably, then turns back to my younger self. He flips his bandaged hand over and threads his fingers with hers, tugging slightly so that she’s looking at his face when he says, “You saved me, and you put out the fire, but we don’t have a house anymore, Lyss. Our home is gone.”

This just seems to make her angry. “So? It’s just a house, Theo. You can rebuild, or … or get a new one. You don’t have to—”

Smith shakes his head, his voice rising. “And what? Go back to school looking like a freak of nature, having to answer questions and see pity on everyone’s faces and hear them whisper, ‘Just like his parents, only he survived.’ Do you think I want that? Any of that?”

Tears are gleaming in my younger self’s eyes—and in mine, too. She says nothing, just stares at him, her lips trembling.