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“Why’d you punch me?”

“You were being a jerk about my cancer.”

“No, I was being…”

“I don’t come here for pity. I get that at home and school and pretty much everywhere else I go. Don’t ruin this for me, Charlie. Your house is my cancer-free zone.”

We watch each other for a moment as my nose bleeds.

Charlotte grabs my wrist and pulls me over toward the sink. “You’re making a mess,” she says as blood drips into the sink basin. I silently pray Mom won’t be getting back from the grocery story anytime soon. This would not go over well.

Charlotte takes a long cardboard tube from one of the wrappers. “Let me stop the bleeding.”

Gently, she presses on the bridge of my nose, feeling the cartilage. “It’s not broken. Just burst blood vessels. You may have some interesting bruising.” She pops a white cottony thing out of the cardboard and shoves it in one nostril, then does the same with the second.

“You’re a doctor now?”

“I’ve spent enough time with them to have earned an honorary degree.” She wipes the blood away from my chin. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “All done. Don’t take them out for at least ten minutes.”

I blink back tears from the stinging in my nose, like an entire hive of yellow jackets flew up there. I turn away from Charlotte and look in the mirror again.

My reflection peers back at me with two cottony cylinders protruding from my nostrils, complete with pull-strings for easy removal. I grab one of the strings to yank, but Charlotte stops me.

“I said leave them alone.”

“First, you punch me, then you shove tampons up my nose?”

“Trust me,” she says, retrieving the ice from the counter and wrapping it in a paper towel. “It’ll stop the bleeding.”

She guides me toward the kitchen table. “This will help the swelling,” she says, holding the compress to the bridge of my nose. She cups the back of my neck with her free hand to keep me from jerking away from her. The coolness of her fingers there makes me shiver.

“I’m sorry I roughed you up,” she says.

“You aren’t the first girl to punch me.” The worried wrinkles on her forehead slide away as she smiles at me. “You won’t be the last.”

Her smile flickers. “I get it, okay? Cancer freaks people out. It’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to look at me like this.” She shifts the compress, and I try not to flinch. “Everyone needs time and space to process it when they find out. Everyone. Some of them don’t ever bridge that space to come back to me. Cancer has made me selfish. I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Does Becca know?”

Charlotte nods.

“Did you punch her, too?”

“No. She handled it with more grace than you.”

That seems about right. It’s hard to get a rise out of Becca.

She removes the ice pack and hands it to me. Standing, she leans forward and brushes my forehead with a light kiss. “Try to remember, Charlie, please. I’m more than my diagnosis.”

I close my eyes to keep the room from spinning. When I feel steady enough to open them, Charlotte has disappeared.

4.2

Greta and James are impressed with my rumpled face. When I step into the kitchen where James is making a taco dinner, he drops the wooden spoon and cries out, “C-man got smacked.” I think he may piss himself from laughing so hard.

Greta tries to remain cool, but it doesn’t last. She pats my arm. “It’s okay, sweetie. A little makeup will fix it. Maybe a paper bag, too.”

“What’d you tell your parents?” James asks.

“I walked into the door while texting Greta. Dad said, ‘For a genius, you can be pretty dumb.’ They’re both proud of me.”

James laughs, but Greta says, “Wonder what everyone at school will think.”

“Forget it,” I say, grabbing a handful of chips and joining Melody and Ella on the couch to watch cartoons.

Melody’s honey brown eyes bunch up when she smiles her gap-toothed smile. “You look like Mr. Incredible, Charlie.”

“Oh yeah?”

She points at my eyes. “You’re wearing a mask.” She and Ella dissolve into giggles.

I don’t feel like Mr. Incredible.

After dinner, James, Greta, and I go out to get some ice cream. On the way home, I can’t help but turn down Charlotte’s street. I slow the car across from her house. There are no lights on in the front, but Charlotte’s silver Civic is in the driveway.

“You sure you’re okay, man?” James asks.

I work my jaw to loosen the stiff muscles there. “No.”

I drive around the corner and park the car on the side of the road.

“What’re we doing here, Chuck?”

“I don’t know.” I open my door and get out. James and Greta follow. “I’m going to take a quick walk.”

James throws a massive forearm around my shoulders. “Want some company?”

His expression is like a plate glass window, so I can see all the emotions lining up behind it. At the front of the line, friendship looks out at me.

“Thanks.”

We walk up the greenway running behind Ms. Finch’s house.

Once we’re nearby, Greta goes street side to check the numbers painted on the mailboxes. Recognizing it from the back is tricky. I think we’ve passed it already.

James and I toss stones in the creek while we wait for Greta’s report.

I try to judge the weight of a stone in my palm before tossing it. When I hear it hit the water, I calculate the time it will take for it to sink to the bottom.

“You really like her?” James asks, interrupting my math.

I’m not sure I want to talk about Charlotte right now. My nose aches as I wrinkle it. “Does it matter?”

“Let’s do a little experiment to answer that question.” James shifts his weight next to me, and I think it’s to pick up another rock, but instead, his right shoulder crashes into my chest as he shoves me into the creek. I land on my butt in the murky sludge coating the bottom.

While it’s not exactly cold in the south in late October, Sycamore Creek did not get the memo. The water temperature is chilly enough that my manly business shrinks to a size even the Hubble telescope couldn’t pick up.

“What the hell was that for?” So much for all that friendship I thought I saw a moment ago.

James levels me with a rare look for him—gravity. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters. It’s cold, and I’m soaked.”

“How much do you like Charlotte? I dare you to tell me it doesn’t matter.”

It’s like the air is being squeezed from my lungs.

“See. It matters. Greta’s here because she’s loyal to you. I’m here for Greta. Why are you here, freezing your nuts off, for Charlotte Finch?”

And it’s there. The answer is there, like it was always part of me. “Because she matters.”

“Right. If I were to lose Greta, I’d never be the same. Look at my mom, for Christ’s sake.” He pauses, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he’s trying to grasp the words right out of the air. “Without Dad, she became a shell, Chuck. And no matter what my sisters and I did, we couldn’t fill her up again. It’s been five years and I’m only beginning to see signs of life in her. Loss like that has a long half-life. This matter has a mass so heavy it could crush you if you’re not careful.”

I shiver from the creek, looking up at him with nothing to say. The pain in his eyes says it’s true. His shoulders soften away from his ears as he takes a deep breath and blows it out.

“Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t help this girl, but you should know what you’re getting into. I’m also not saying you really have a choice when it comes to your motives. I get that. No one wants to fall and get hurt.” He steps closer to the creek’s edge. “I’m just saying to prepare for heartache, because it’s always harder to be the one still hanging around.” He reaches a hand out toward me, clasping mine firmly in his and pulling me from the water.

“And know I’ll be here to help pick you up,” he says once we’re both standing on solid ground.

I need to reevaluate. James isn’t just Greta’s boyfriend. James is my other best friend.

Greta reappears, her mouth falling open at the sight of me, drenched from chest to toes. “Do I even want to know why Chuck is soaking wet?” she asks James.

“He’s learning,” he says over his shoulder.

“He pushed me,” I splutter.

But Greta looks pleased to see me soaked. “When you’re done with your lesson, Chuck,” she calls, walking in the direction she’s pointing, “Finch’s house is three down.”

James chuckles as I wring creek water from the hem of my sweater. He throws an arm around me.

When we approach the back gate, Greta hisses, “Someone’s outside.”

We all hit the dirt, my sopping clothes squelching on impact.

Ms. Finch is pacing on a patio behind the house with her phone. “Dad, she’s being ridiculous.”

She stops pacing and drops the phone from her ear, looking up to the star-filled sky. Returning to the phone, she says, “We can’t make her do anything.”

She goes quiet again and picks up the pacing. “Look, I’m sorry. Can you calm down? I’m not trying to upset you.” Just behind her, I make out the back door, lit by a globe light. As Ms. Finch moves away from the door, I see a flap at the bottom quiver. Suddenly, the hellhound pokes out its head, its long nose quivering as it scents the air.

Greta smacks me on the shoulder. “She has a dog?”

James mutters, “It’s not a dog. It’s a freaking wolf.”

“In the wake of the whole cancer announcement I may have forgotten to mention it. So sue me,” I snap.

Luna’s supersonic hearing must be engaged because her ears stand at attention, and I swear, she stares right at me before tipping her head back and howling.

Ms. Finch jumps and growls back at the dog, “Luna, hush.”

She peers out into the yard for a moment before pushing Luna back through the little door. “Hold on, Dad,” she says. The door closes behind her and the light above the patio goes dark.

My brain is stretching, trying to figure out what Ms. Finch could be talking about. What is it Charlotte is refusing to do? Clean her room? Take the SAT? Go to the university next year?

How am I supposed to figure any of this out when new variables keep popping up in the problem?

James and Greta belly crawl through the brush back to the path. I stay and watch the house. One of the upstairs windows is lit, framing Charlotte’s silhouette.

“Chuck,” Greta calls. I wave her off.

Charlotte is sketching in her familiar sketchbook, making furious slash marks at the page with a pencil. As I watch, she throws her book across the room, her chest rising and falling like a hummingbird. She collapses in on herself like a dying star, and I watch her wipe her eyes and rock.

Charlotte is crying.

I’ve arrived at an event horizon and there’s no turning back from the black hole sucking at all of the pieces that make me whole. Those pieces fly away from me at the speed of light. All but one. The only piece that matters. The one with Charlotte’s name burned onto it.

4.3

“I’m going to tell Charlotte to clear out of her house tomorrow night,” I tell Greta and James Sunday morning at Krispy Kreme. We’ve got our laptops and papers spread all over the table, doing homework and practicing our presentation for Ms. Finch tomorrow. “I think we’ve done enough ass kissing for a while.”

James holds up a fist for me to pound. “What’s the plan?”

I pull a scrap of paper from my back pocket and hand it to Greta.

She glances over it and pierces me with a look. “Are you serious?”

“As cancer.” I scowl at the girl behind the counter who keeps gaping at my bruised face.

Greta folds and unfolds the paper. “Chuck, you know I’m not afraid of Whiting—”

“Even though you should be,” James interjects, pointing his pen at her like a light saber. Greta shoots him a dirty look before continuing.

“But there’s no cute explanation for this.” She rattles the paper on the last word.

I rub my sweaty palms down the thighs of my pants. “It’s just a stink bomb.”

“Just?”

I shrug. “It’s only chemistry, Gret.”

James peers over Greta’s shoulder. “No way, man. Finch could have us arrested.”

I nod. “Only if someone gets caught.” Somehow, I’m pretty sure this isn’t what Mrs. Dunwitty meant when she told me to man up, but it’s the best I can come up with on short notice. “Which is why I’ll do it alone.”

“Chuck,” Greta says, her voice mournful. “This is between the Finch sisters. You shouldn’t get involved. This isn’t your battle.”

I’m stretched out on my side of the booth, my feet up on the bench. I study my shoes, the way the laces are fraying and the fabric is worn soft after so many years. These shoes could outlast Charlotte. That’s the most depressing thought I’ve had all day, and I’ve had nothing but sad-ass thoughts.

“Maybe not,” I finally admit, because even I know this is insane. I knew getting involved with Charlotte would be a deviation to my arrow straight life, but this, this is like following a line in a completely different reality. “But people get caught in things they can’t escape. Things like cancer. Charlotte didn’t ask for that, just like I didn’t ask for this. This is supposed to be a war, right? I can’t cure Charlotte’s cancer.” These words sound so loud in my head. I’d have thought I’d shouted them if James and Greta weren’t still leaning across the table to hear me. “This is all I can do for her. If I’m a casualty of war, then so be it.”

“You sure you’re up for the sacrifice?” James asks.

I look from him to Greta, sitting side-by-side, unaware they’re so close their shoulders are touching, drawn together by the magnetic pull of emotions. I want that closeness, too.

“Well, good thing we staked out Finch’s house last night,” Greta says, ignoring my non-answer. She passes the paper to me over the table. “At least we know what we’re up against. I, for one, am not about to get busted for this prank no matter how irresistible Charlotte Finch is.”

My ears flush, but one look at the twisted smirk on Greta’s face, and I know she understands. I know she’s figured me out.

---

Becca stops me that night on my way out. Her brown hair is falling out of her ponytail in chunks just the right size for twirling around a finger.

She holds her black wool cap out for me. “You may want this,” she says.

“For what?”

“For whatever you and your friends are planning tonight. I know you’re up to something, and I think I want to say thanks. Thanks for helping Charlotte.”

I take the cap and turn it around and around in my fingers. “You think?”

“It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“I want her to be happy.”

“Me too,” she says, her hand brushing mine before she drifts back into her room.

We’re taking James’s two littlest sisters trick-or-treating as adorable decoys, so we meet at his house at dusk Sunday night. They run around the kitchen in their costumes. Ella is a black cat. Her curly hair is tied in two poufs on top of her head and Greta has drawn a cat nose and whiskers on her using eyeliner. Melody is a witch with a tall pointy hat that flops at the tip since it got crushed when the girls were wrestling.

Greta is stress eating Mrs. Thomas’s Halloween candy. James grabs the Tootsie Roll she’s just unwrapped and jams it in his mouth.

“Look, Gret,” he says. “We aren’t going to do any permanent damage to Finch’s house. We’re just going to make it smell like a jock’s junk.” He’s trying to convince himself as much as her. We’re all feeling jittery.

“And we’ve got the cover of Halloween, a night known for hell-raising,” I say as I press a mostly-frozen steak to the bridge of my nose. It still throbs like a distant drum beat. The steak is Greta’s idea—a diversion for the hellhound. I’m supposed to lob it and run, but it feels awfully good pressed against my face.

Ella runs up to James and hands him his zombie mask. “Let’s go. Can’t we go, Jamie?” she whines, rubbing her hand across her nose and smearing the paint of her tiny black cat nose.

James looks at Greta and me. I tug on Becca’s hat. I’m ready. Greta grabs another candy bar.

“Okay, kiddos.” James pulls his mask on. “Let’s trick-or-treat.”

The little girls burst into squeals and run for the front door. They sprint from house to house, eating most of the candy before it even sees the inside of their buckets.

By the time we reach Ms. Finch’s street, the girls are tired, and Ella is feeling sick to her stomach. We’re two doors from Ms. Finch’s house when Ella begins to cry.

“Jamie, I want to go home,” she whimpers. “I’m done trick-or-treating.”

Greta and I exchange wide-eyed glances. James bends down on one knee and pats Ella’s shoulder. “We’re almost done, El. Just a few more?” Her whimpering ceases when he hands her another piece of candy.

Anything for candy.

We steer them straight to Ms. Finch’s front walk. James pulls on his mask and Greta and I disappear around the side yard. Our plan is to infiltrate the house via the doggie door. We peek into the backyard.

No sign of the dog. Still, I pull the steak out of the plastic baggie.

Greta takes it from me whispering, “We both know I’ve got better aim.”

She’s right.

She hands me the stink bomb, in a small, lidded box we nicked from the recycling bin outside Charlotte’s and Becca’s school this afternoon. The school’s name is on an address label on the lid. I’m hoping this will make it seem more like it’s one of the morons at Sandstone behind this. It’s a thin veil, but I’ve got a lot riding on it.

A tremor runs through my hands, making the box shake. Screw Dr. Whiting getting pissed. Ms. Finch will know it’s me, and she’ll either bury me in poetry or just go ahead and fail me. Either way, I’m a dead man. Well, not dead dead. What lit term is that again? The exaggeration one? I’m all about the exaggeration one.

“We don’t have to do this,” Greta says, noticing my wobbly hands.

The night is cool and damp, so our breath puffs around us, making our own atmosphere—physical evidence that we are alive.

“Yes,” I say, my hands calm, my jaw tense. “I do.” I don’t understand this war between sisters, but I’ve chosen my side.

I nod at Greta, and we take off running toward the lit back door. I skid to a halt in front of it and open the box. My pulse thrums in my ears.

I unscrew the lid on the jar, my eyes watering instantly. The smell is so potent Greta gags behind me. I try to shove the lid on the box, but my blurry vision makes it difficult.

“Holy stink, Batman,” I mutter.

Fatal mistake.

The stench drifts into my mouth so I can taste its foulness.

Greta is backing away from me, looking pale.

I finally manage the lid and am about to shove the thing in the doggie door, when a huge gray head pokes out from inside the house, nose aquiver.

The beast eyes me. I can hear a faint growl in its throat.

“Greta,” I choke. The fumes are making me lightheaded. “The meat. Throw the meat.”

Greta’s good arm does us no good when she’s terrified. She drops the steak and covers her eyes with her hands. Peeking between fingers, she hisses, “Run, Chuck. Leave it and run.”

I smile at the dog. The dog stares at me like I’m the last piece of kibble on earth. Its low growl shifts to a whimper as its left ear twists backward, listening to something I can’t hear inside the house.

“Nice doggie?” I say. Effective because the nice doggie pulls its head back in the door and disappears. I look at Greta and shrug before lifting the flap to peek inside. I can see Ms. Finch’s clean and empty kitchen.

Without further hesitation, I shove the putrid box through the door and I am withdrawing my head when I hear Ms. Finch’s voice coming down the hallway.

“Let me get you a towel. Oh, you poor thing,” she says.

I freeze.

James’s voice, full of panic calls, “She’s fine. Really. We’ve got to go.”

“She’s not fine. She’s covered in vomit.”

One of James’s sisters has vomited on Ms. Finch’s front porch and I’ve just shoved a stink bomb in her back door.

Half of me thinks, Yesssss!

The other half thinks, GET OUT, FOOL. But it’s like I’m watching bad reality TV. I can’t turn away until I know if the country bumpkin with questionable intelligence will shoot himself in the foot.

Ms. Finch gasps and clasps her hands over her mouth and nose as she steps into her kitchen. “The hell?” she gasps behind her hands. Luna starts to howl.

Greta decides now is the time to put her good arm to use. She snatches my collar and yanks me up, dragging me through the yard and along the greenway, coming out to the street at the end of the block.

Panting, she asks, “Did she see you?”

“No.”

Greta’s body thaws with relief, but mine stays taut, each muscle pulled tight with the lie I’ve just told.

Did Ms. Finch see me?

Yes.

4.4

At home, I flop on my bed fully dressed. Maybe I’ll skip school tomorrow to job hunt. If I start working at Quick Chicken now, I could be an assistant manager by the time I’m thirty-five. There’s no way I’ll get into MIT with a criminal record.

MIT!

I leap from bed, ignoring the spinning sensation in my throbbing head, and open up my laptop.

“Charlie?” Becca stands at my door holding her cell phone out.

“I can’t help you with your phone now. I’m busy.” I pull up my application and begin skimming, but Becca’s long fingers dig into my shoulder.

“I don’t need your help,” she says, wiggling the phone. “Charlotte wants to talk to you.”

My stomach tangles with nerves and guilt.

She hates me.

This was not the help she was hoping for.

Becca hands me the phone.

“Charles Hanson, you little shit.” Charlotte’s voice is so light it buoys me. “That was genius. How did you get the little girl to puke simultaneously with the stink bomb?”

“You’re not mad?”

“Me?” Charlotte laughs. “Jo was so pissed she went straight to bed. After she opened all the windows, of course.”

“And threw out her shoes?” My stomach is still queasy, but Charlotte’s enthusiasm is catching.

Charlotte laughs again, a maniacal string of notes. “Her shoes. Yes. They were disgusting.”

“Glad you approved. I wasn’t sure.” I click to a new window in my browser, pulling up a blank search screen.

“It’s like you are an angel sent to watch over me. A demented, brilliant angel.”

“So everything’s okay? We’re okay?”

Charlotte’s quiet a fraction of a second longer than I’m comfortable. But her response feels warm and settling.

“Thanks, Charlie.”

She says a quick bye and I hear the click of her disconnecting.

I try to hold on to the sound of her voice as long as I can. She called me an angel. Demented—but brilliant.

Freshman year, my favorite science fair project was Adam March’s exploration of tumors in rats. Adam’s dad works at a big pharmaceutical company and had access to sick rats and chemo pills. The company sponsored Adam and he went all the way to the national science fair with the project. I remember thinking it was the coolest project. I don’t remember feeling sorry for the control rat that didn’t get the cancer drugs. I don’t remember feeling bad when both the treated and untreated rats died. I do remember wishing I’d come up with such a badass project.

Other than Adam’s rats, I’ve never had any experience with cancer. It’s remarkable to not know anyone with cancer. This year, in the United States alone, there will be over 1.5 million new cases of cancer. How do I know? After Charlotte hung up, I did a little research.

Normally, I love research. I’m not feeling warm and fuzzy about it now.

There are as many kinds of brain cancers as there are types of brain cells. I don’t know which kind Charlotte has. I touch my sore nose and think that somehow that may not be a conversation I’m ready to have with her.

But not knowing means I have no idea what’s going on with her, even after three hours of research.

There are websites out there for teens with cancer. They’ve got bright colors and cool logos and look a little like ads for hipster clothes. There are stories of survival, but then there are these stories of loss. And I know I should be happy for the survivors, but I just found Charlotte. I don’t want to lose her yet.

And I hate myself for thinking the treatments, while invasive and horrible, are also beautiful and brilliant. There’s a proton treatment that’s like radiation, but with pencil point accuracy. Someone made that happen. Science made that happen.

With so many types of cancer and so many ways to treat it and so many lives won and lost, I’m feeling overwhelmed. My head hurts, my eyes are blurry, and there is a kind of exhaustion stealing over me the likes of which I’ve never felt, all of which, I now know, are symptoms of brain tumors.

In a word, I feel hopeless.

4.5

I roll into class looking like a Goth kid with a new tube of black eyeliner thanks to Charlotte and her right jab. At least the swelling in my nose has gone down so I no longer sound like a squeaky toy.

The tardy bell sounds, and Ms. Finch closes the book she’d been reading, tucks it into her podium and examines the class like we’re disembodied innards floating in jars of formaldehyde. “I trust everyone had an exciting Halloween?” Her gaze falls on me like an Iridium hammer.

My muscles twitch with the need to squirm in my seat.

“Mine was memorable, I assure you,” she continues.

Greta’s inhalation is as sharp as a scalpel.

“Speaking of memorable…Mr. Hanson?” Everyone turns to look at me. I try to keep breathing despite the fear squeezing my lungs. “Why doesn’t your group present first today?”

I blink twice. “Y-y-yes, ma’am.” She carries a stack of rubrics and a red pen to an open seat in the back of the classroom as we set up.

James begins our presentation by explaining how it’s possible to create an infinite number of poems. He demonstrates some wicked math to prove his point. The class nods along. It’s not hard to follow, but I catch Ms. Finch off guard when I glance at her. Her mouth is open in awe.

That’s right. Math = awesome.

Next, Greta reads a few poems we found on the concept of infinity. Most of it is lame. Poets confuse infinity with heaven, which is stupid because I can prove the existence of infinity, and I can prove an “afterlife” of sorts (matter can be neither created nor destroyed), but I can’t prove heaven. I don’t say any of this in the presentation, but wait for my cue to begin the practical demonstration.

When Greta’s done, she nods at me. “Right,” I say, clearing my throat. I pass out note cards to each person. The cards have words written on them we copied from Mom’s poetry magnets. “There are fifty words in the room. How many possible five-word poems can we create?”

Misty shouts out the answer first, which I write on the board (2,118,760 if you’ve forgotten). “How many do you estimate can be made in five minutes?” I ask, then scribble their responses on the board. Capping the marker and waving them silent, I say, “Go.”

At first, everyone is competitive, trying to get the most poems and hardly paying attention to the words. But, at 2.14 minutes, I notice a shift. Things start slowing down. People aren’t happy to shove any group of words together and call it a poem. They get picky about which words they pair up with, even if it means they end up with fewer poems at the end of five minutes.

I’m not the only one to notice. Ms. Finch catches my eye and smiles. Not a nice, teacher-y smile. More like a “suck it, math geek” smile.

At the end of five minutes I call time, and wrap up. “Well, we’re done, I guess,” I say glancing at James and Greta. They both nod. “Any questions?”

The class stays silent. Awesome. I’m about to move back to my seat when I notice one hand in the air.

Ms. Finch.

Shit.

“Yes, Ms. Finch?”

“I enjoyed your presentation, especially this exercise. I’m curious to hear if it went the way you planned. The class didn’t get near their estimated number of poems. What happened?”

James and Greta look blankly at each other before turning to me.

“The class miscalculated. It happens to the best of us sometimes.”

Ms. Finch nods, but presses on. “Was it the class’s miscalculation or yours?”

James, Greta, and I all say, “The class.”

Ms. Finch chuckles. When Charlotte laughs I hear music, but this sound cryogenically freezes me. Thousands of crystalline daggers stab at me from inside. Ms. Finch says, “I see.”

What does she see? The lies the poets tell her about meeting our loved ones again in the infinite? Does she see how miserable she’s making Charlotte? Can she see how hopeless any struggle to hold on to her is?

A surge of icy heat freezes my chest cavity, and I wonder, “What, exactly, do you see?”

Дата добавления: 2014-12-24