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paparazzi first. The spark of irritation that flashes across her face adds new life to her expression, which gives me hope that this isn’t going to be a total disaster. But she looks about inches away from flipping them off or calling the cops, neither of which would be good. I’m not entirely sure of the legality of them being quite this close to the store, although still not in it.
    “Amanda, hey,” I say quickly, stuffing my hands in my pockets because I don’t know what else to do with them. My heart is beating too fast, and I can feel my nervousness written all over my face. Elise’s plan is dependent on Amanda’s enthusiasm bubbling up and smoothing over any weirdness, but this all just feels awkward and wrong.
    Amanda glances at me for a split second and then back to the photographers, almost in dismissal.
    Then I see it click. Her whole body stiffens.
    You hear about people freezing in place, but I’ve never really seen it happen until now. It’s like every muscle in her body decided to seize up all at once. Her hand on the register drawer contracts in a painful-looking claw, and then she’s staring at me, her dark eyes huge in her whiter-than-white face.
    It would be almost comical except for the sheer terror in her expression. Her mouth works as if she wants to scream, but no sound is coming out.
    I feel the urge to look behind me for whatever is causing this reaction, but I already know.
    Oh, no, no, no. I take another step toward her. “Amanda, I—” I try again, and my voice breaks with the strain to sound normal, unthreatening.
    But she throws her hands up in defense, catching the open register drawer in the process. Coins spray out everywhere as she drops to the ground, crouching behind the wall of her register cubicle, and it’s my turn to freeze.
    I don’t care how much research Elise (or Nadia) did on Amanda Grace, the Miracle Girl. Whatever I am, or more accurately, whatever Chase Henry is, to this girl, “hero” is definitely not it. Not even fucking close.

 
    3
    Amanda
    Weird things sometimes trigger flashbacks.
    Most of the time, the causes are obvious, expected even. The distinctive reek of stale cigarette smoke on someone’s clothing; the bitter, metallic taste of blood in my mouth when I accidentally bite my cheek; a raspy male voice that sounds like Jakes’s; ragged fingernails with dirt caked beneath them.
    But other times, it’s bizarre the connections my brain chooses to make. The first time Liza made bacon after I came home, I ended up on the bathroom floor in a cold sweat. I couldn’t figure it out until I talked it through with my therapist at the time. Apparently, the bacon smelled too much like hot dogs, which I’d eaten daily in my basement cell. Sometimes warmed up, sometimes not. By the end, I could barely choke them down in either state. And evidently, cooking bacon had a similar enough scent to set off the memories.
    I will live happily for the rest of my life never, ever laying eyes on another hot dog, but I miss bacon, damnit. One more thing taken from me.
    So, in theory, there is nothing about arguing with Mrs. Cahill about the condition of her lettuce to trip a flashback. She wants half price because it’s “too wilted,” which is what she always says. It might help if she didn’t put it in her cart first thing and then proceed to pile everything on top of it. Also, half price on a buck twenty-nine? Please.
    I am vaguely aware of the commotion behind me, near the doors, but three hours into my shift, I’m basically numb, overwhelmed by the constant state of alertness. I hate Sample Sundays.
    Then someone calls my name.
    I turn to see photographers, paparazzi, leaning in through the doors and taking pictures through the windows.
    Someone must be doing some kind of retrospective on my story for the anniversary, even though I’d said no to all the interview requests. Miracle Girl rises again. Great.
    Just as I’m about to ask Andy, the nearest bag boy, to