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It’s my fault he’s hurt. Besides, he saved me when I was in trouble.
    Tears pinch out of my eyes. “Then how does it work? How do I help you?”
    “Honey.” His lips barely move.
    I’m not a fan of endearments, but now isn’t the best time to pick a fight. I nod, hoping to encourage him. “Yes, tell me what to do.”
    “Honey.”
    “I’m here,” I whisper and offer his shoulder a companionable squeeze. Maybe he just needs someone beside him for a moment.
    Michael rolls off of me with a heart-tearing moan, palms landing on the ground. Ugly blisters are rising on his burned back. Tears scorch my eyes. The smell of burnt flesh is more than I can handle, but I have to. He’s trying to stand, but his legs wobble. Making sure to place my arm where there are no burns, I wrap it around his middle. He drapes an arm across my shoulder.
    I catch his deep gaze and want to make the lines etched in his brow go away. “On the count of three, stand.”
    “One ... two ... three.”
    Michael grunts, and I can tell he bites back a howl, but I get him to his feet. His fingers dig into my shoulder, making me turn my head to look at him. His hot chocolate eyes flood with concern. “There are so many people hurt. We have to help them.”
    Once again, I’m convinced he’s insane. “You’re in no condition to play doctor.”
    Police officers surge past us, on their way to Wall Street.
    “But it’s what we’re made for. We’re supposed to help ease human suffering.” His teeth start to rattle. Shock? “Or else they win.” He points, indicating the havoc caused by the explosion.
    I squint. Then I see them. The shadow people—Shades. They’re limping out from the shadows cast by the buildings, but the people don’t seem to notice them. Shades move closer to the ones that are injured and crying, and they bend close to their faces—sucking in the air.
    A tremor works its way up my spine. “Wh-what are they doing?”
    Michael leans more of his weight into me. “They feed off human despair. They’re growing stronger.”
    We need to get out of here before they see us. “Tell me where to take you.”
    He nods. “You’re right. We can’t let them see you. Leave me. Just run, Gabby.”
     I tighten my arm around his middle. “I’m not leaving you.”
    The door to the storefront jingles, and the family from earlier shuffles outside. Mary’s father has her in his arms, her head buried against his chest. Her mother gasps as she looks down Wall Street. She dabs at her eyes.
    Mary’s father approaches us. “Are you the ones who saved my girl?”
    He’s a towering sort of man. I gulp. “Yes, sir.”
    He hands Mary to the mother and reaches for Michael. “Here, I can help him. Our vehicle’s around the block.”
    I don’t have time to argue. Michael hobbles beside the man and I fall into step with Mary and her mother.
    Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
    Within minutes, we’re in their old style pick-up truck. It rides low and in the back, where Michael and I are, the sides are made from wooden slats. Michael’s lying on his side, his head on my thigh again. Even though I have a blister growing from when I slapped out the fire, I rub the palm of my hand back and forth on his shoulder. Every bump in the road causes him to groan.
    “Michael,” I whisper. “What year was burn cream invented?”
    My words elicit a small smile. “Not yet. Shh.” He closes his eyes.
    The truck rumbles past the city limits, and fields roll into view. I’m sure in my time there aren’t farms so close to New York. It’s surreal, seeing a field and the city in the same instance. I peek at Michael’s oozing back—charred flesh—and wish I hadn’t.
    We turn up a long drive, and the truck stops. The man helps Michael out of the truck, and I follow them into their home. The house is small—one story—a kitchen, a family room, and a bedroom or two. Mary’s mother sets water boiling and hands me a jar of amber goo. 
    “Here,”