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reply, but a breeze stirs his hair and I remember him.
    â€œWhat do you know about anything?” I add, scowling.
    He steps closer. My traitorous heart picks up speed. Forgiveness’s eyes are pits I could fall into and never be able to climb back out of.
    â€œI know that you feel an emptiness inside of you, Alexandra Tate, that you’re trying so hard to fill,” he says quietly. “I know that you cry yourself to sleep sometimes, but you’re always careful to make sure your aunt and uncle don’t hear. I know you pretend that the boy next door really is your little brother. And I know that Revenge—”
    â€œStop.” I’m shaking. Resentment flashes and fades, his palm cool on my back. “If you were trying to persuade me to do something, that was the wrong technique.”
    â€œI’m not trying to persuade you to do anything.” A familiar silhouette appears on the ground beside us—Revenge—but Forgiveness doesn’t take his eyes off my face. “I’m trying to help you.”
    â€œI don’t need any help.” With that, I walk away from both of them.
    This time, Forgiveness doesn’t follow me. Strangely enough, Revenge doesn’t either. I hear their voices, low and indiscernible.
    Seething, feeling as if my insides are going to explode from some chemical combination that’s not supposed to blend together, I get into the car. The two of them are still standing there. I grip the steering wheel and glare at their profiles, despite the fact that neither is paying attention to me. It’s strange, seeing Revenge and Forgiveness together. Like the brightest dawn and the darkest time of night. Whatever they’re talking about, they disagree on something. Revenge’s fists are clenched in a rare display of aggression, and though Forgiveness seems relaxed, his stance also has a tense quality to it.
    They’re talking about me.
    Nate Foster’s release has opened a door that can’t be closed. Voices. Forgiveness. Change.
    As I reach for the keys dangling from the ignition, I allow myself one more glimpse at these creatures who are tearing me apart. I think I know what I’m going to call them now. They’re not Emotions, or Elements, or anything else literal and simple.
    They’re Choices.

    The cold wakes me.
    I turn on my side and frown at the open window, ignoring the present on my nightstand that’s still unopened. The filmy curtains Missy picked out flutter in the breeze. Did I leave it open? Blearily, I stand and shuffle over to it to pull at the frame. It sticks. “Damn it,” I swear under my breath. Shivering, I stand on tiptoe and put my weight on it. Nothing.
    Alexandra.
    This time it comes on a gust of air. I leap back, tripping on the edge of the rug. Pain radiates through my bones as I land, and then I’m scrambling back as if something is crawling through the window after me. My back hits the edge of the mattress.
    Fear bursts in front of me, tapping my nose before I can recoil, and then he’s gone again. I stare at the sill, half-expecting a hand to clamp around it. Nothing appears.
    â€œNo,” I moan, clutching my head. This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. I tell myself that monsters don’t exist, that Sammy Thorn is nothing but a story fabricated to frighten children into staying in their beds.
    Alexandra.
    Again, right in my ear. I close my eyes and focus on breathing. “Where are you?”
    The mines. The mines.
    This isn’t happening. It isn’t. “Leave me alone.” A whimper escapes me, and I despise how weak it makes me feel.
    Enough. On trembling legs, I stand. My boxers are sticky with sweat. Every instinct in me shrieks to hide under the covers or run to Saul and Missy. Instead, I take one step after the other toward the window that I didn’t open. The voice doesn’t speak again, but there’s a thickness to the air, a sense that