I run the pre-marked course in the morning, pushing myself to the limit to burn off the excess fire fuel. Sadly, the depletion is short-lived. My body is a bottle filled with carbonated deliciousness. I need to cap the top by lunchtime, which creates a new problem. People are swarming thanks to Tally’s knack for social surplus, and those lickers and kickers keep shaking the bottle. By the end of the day, I’m a foaming disaster waiting to explode. One twisted cap, then ka-BOOM.

I spend Friday at school in quiet contemplation. I’m afraid to speak, afraid the pleas in my mind will work past my lips. Will the finality I’ve chosen offer me a peaceful resolution? Transitioning isn’t a painless process, from what I’ve been made to understand. Will being drained of my energy equal the pain of being consumed by it? My life is a black hole, and there’s nothing I can do to lighten the dismal cloud pulling me in. I’m the cloud.

Processing my fate in my current institutionalized state is ironic. I refuse to define my necessary death as my life coming to a screeching halt, even at such a young age, because I’ve never gotten the wheels spinning. There’s been no rough stop and go start. There hasn’t been any movement. It’s only when I’ve finally begun looking at my future like a possible thing it’s being sardonically dangled just out of reach.

More like your dad than you thought, huh? Superego commiserates. Hamsters assemble.

I sit at the lunch table pushing my food around, distracting my rancid thoughts with the scraping of my fork.

Tally bumps my shoulder. “What are you wearing tonight?”

The movement is meant to divert the nails-on-chalkboard sound the utensil is making. I don’t look up from my tray. I’ve yet to tell her I’m not attending her ritualistic bonfire bash since I have other plans. No time like the present. “Not going.”

Succinct as always, Superego tsks.

She huffs. “As if you aren’t going.”

Tally has a reputation to uphold. She’s only too eager to remind me, daily, my cooperation is non-negotiable. She has cheer practice every day after school and fully expects her Friday routine to resume in full swing. A two-week hiatus was enough.

I don’t want her plans to change. In fact, I’m counting on them staying the same. I have the means and the motive. What I need is her and Declan otherwise occupied to give me the opportunity. There’s also the small matter of figuring out the ideal location for my incendiary Sumair introduction, but I’m confident Karma will happily arrange that final detail. She’s got her hooks in deep.

“Sheyla,” Tally says dramatically. “Are you seriously pretending to be resistant to a little fire fun?”

There are several snickers around the table, and I raise my eyes to hers, getting lost in their emerald shimmer.

You’re actually going to miss her, Superego chides.

“Oh, you’re all frownish.” She forces her lips into a frown, too.

I swallow hard.

She tips her head to the side for a moment before refocusing on her minions, who all paused their external conversations to gape at us.

I’m sad. The feeling isn’t new, but it’s certainly one I haven’t experienced in a long time. There are things, while few, I’ll miss. Yes, though I loathe to admit it, Tally’s one of them.

Declan finger-drums the table. “Is there anything you want to run by me?”

Sparks light my cheeks. My fire anti-friend forages inside me, chewing on my veins like a yummy snack.

Emergency shut-off switch, Superego commands. I comply.

When I exit the safety of my deprivation chamber, Declan and I are the only two people still sitting at the table. I do need to talk, but it won’t be to him. I’m afraid he’ll figure out what I’m planning. The only thing keeping my tears at bay is my silence.

I blame Tally for my discontent. As if her self-absorbed personality is contagious, I don’t even have the decency to be sad for the right reasons. I’m not consoled by the people needing to be protected from me, the lives I’ll be saving with my personal sacrifice. I only care about myself, and how when it’s all over, there’ll be no me. What is it like to simply stop existing? I’m disappointed with my lack of martyr appeasement. I can’t help wishing there was another way to handle things, but I’m not persuasive enough to sell myself that bold-faced lie.

“Come on.” Declan hauls me up from the chair when I would’ve become a permanent piece of the cafeteria furniture. “You’ll be late for class.”

The smile I slap on my face ends up looking more like a grimace. This is so much tougher than I thought.

I spend the afternoon trying to hash out the final details of my plan. Location is still a question. Regardless, the most critical part is to convince Declan and Tally everything’s fine.

Declan’s eerily silent as he drives me home. Reaching for the handle on the door, I hear the soft click of him engaging the locks. “Spill it,” he demands.

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I opt for the truth. “There are a lot of things sucking my brain well dry right now.”

“We won’t let anything happen to you.”

He doesn’t realize I want the Sumairs to come after me. My robot betrays me, allowing a frown.

He stops my fingers from rubbing small circles on my stupid designer jeans. I want to light them on fire. I want to do practically anything except sit in this car for another second.

My trembling lips are dead set on betraying me. “Maybe you should let something happen.”

So much for subtlety, Superego chastises.

“Ryan’s hopeful about this,” Declan deflects. “I was doubtful at first, but look at your progress. We haven’t had to forcefully restrain you, and you’re around more people now than ever. He’s right. You won’t have to transition unless you want to.”

“Well, the prospect of obliterating an entire continent is enough to dissuade me from ever wanting that.”

He whistles low.

“It’s a big risk, Declan.”

“It’s a calculated risk.” His lips thin into a straight line. “We’re working out a Plan B, just so you know.”

“Plan B, huh?”

“Yeah.” He lets go of my hands to explain it. The boy likes to paint a picture into reality. “Plan A: you don’t transition. Plan B: contained transition. Tally had a decent idea with the whole bomb shelter thing.”

Don’t you dare tell him there’s a Plan C, Superego warns.

Having spent the last few days thinking of ways to end my life, while he’s been thinking of ways to save it, breaks my tinder heart.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other ways to spend your time than worrying over me.”

“This has been a great distraction.” He’s referring to his star singer search.

“You’ll find her, Declan. You can’t give up.” My hypocrisy knows no bounds.

“Are you going to help me?” He’s daring me to tell him I won’t be around to help.

“What’ll you do once you find her?”

“I’ll make her sing for me, of course.” He sighs contentedly before his peace plane stalls, plummeting down from wherever his hopes were flying him. “When should I pick you up? Tally won’t let you defect.”

“I have to go see someone,” I say cryptically.

He eyes me warily. “Keeping secrets is a dangerous thing to do, Sheyla.”

“Unfortunately, for us, it’s often necessary.” I wring my hands, hoping the half-truth on deck will placate him. “I’m going to talk to my mom.”

His impatient features relax. He won’t push me, not on this, but I need to explain part of it so he’ll have something to relay to Tally. She won’t be anywhere near as understanding. “With everything going on, I need someone outside the situation to listen to the situation.” That isn’t the only reason, and it definitely isn’t the most vital one, albeit true. “She’s the logical candidate.”

“Do you want some moral support? I wouldn’t mind an excuse to defect, myself.”

“This is something I need to do on my own. I appreciate the offer, though.”

What will I even say to her? I’ve spent too much time adamantly refusing to believe any part of her still exists, but if there’s anything in there, any semblance of the person who loved me above everything else in her life, confirmed by my continued existence in place of her own, I owe her a proper goodbye.

Declan unlocks the door, giving me a little wink as he kisses my cheek. I breathe in his Delphinium and Allspice scent. I’ll carry this moment until the end. I swallow a rather bothersome lump back down my throat. “Thank you for everything.”

I rip open the door, running inside before my tears spill over. Bright side: it isn’t the first time he’s witnessed one of my theatrical displays of emotion. The highs and lows have become typical.

My father is sitting at the table reading the paper when I enter the kitchen, wiping furiously at the offending liquid accosting my sight. He lowers the paper, lifts a brow, and puts it back up, all in one easy, fluid movement. I’m grateful for his nonchalance.

I retrieve my plate from the counter. He’s been making dinner every night, which is weird, but I don’t question it. That would require talking to him. My sitting down at the table—more irregularity as I generally take the plate to my room—has him lowering the paper again.

“Can you give me a drive?” I stare down at my plate, twisting a fork through the pasta.

I clock the emotional shift at the same time it hits me like a bag of bricks. My standardly emotionless father is sitting across from me at the kitchen table feeling something so deep, so honest, it rocks me all the way to the core of my being. He’s relieved. Is he relieved I’m leaving or that I’ve lifted the communication embargo?

He nods, breathes deeply, and lifts the paper to hide his face.

Talk to him, Superego urges.

I bite down hard on my lip. No, I can’t do that. It isn’t the time to build a bridge. Will he even notice I’m gone?

I chew my charcoal alfredo, the sound of my bites grinding on my nerves. The only other sound is the crinkling paper and my father shifting awkwardly in his seat. Halfway done, I give up trying to force dinner down. I empty the remainder into the trash bin, rinse my dishes, and deposit them in the dishwasher. It was a satisfactory last meal. His strangely sugary scent almost masked the ash taste.

I shuffle my feet in front of the table, steeling my resolve. If anything’s going to cause a reaction, it’ll be where I want him to take me. “I want to stop by the hospital.” The floor is suddenly very, very interesting. The paper crinkles again where his hands have balled up its edges. In a calculated move, he folds it up and places it down on the table. When his fists knock on the wood, I look up into eyes blinking bullets right into my soul. They hold an array of emotions, from confusion to concern. I cough out the frog camping in my throat. “I’ll be outside whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

I’ll wait however long it takes him to absorb this, just as he’s spent the last eighteen years waiting for my mother. He doesn’t question my request or dare think I’ve somehow rekindled a hope he saw me lose years ago. He makes no judgment. This I can tell by his calm, steadied movements as I follow behind him to the Buick not five minutes later.

The drive to the hospital is quiet. Disappointingly, there’s no disapproving scowl over the cracked window. One more of those would’ve been nice. I cut the brisk air with my fingers, funneling the chill into my body. My fireproof glass is black from the forced containment today.

My father, my once completely absent and emotionless father, reaches across the console to steady a shaking leg that’s vibrating with all the velocity of an electric toothbrush. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay, doesn’t offer an ear. He doesn’t say a single word. He just holds his hand there in an oddly comforting manner until I stop gyrating.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” he murmurs as we pull up at the front.

I can’t look him in the eye. “No, Dad, you’ve done enough waiting.”

Clenching my fists at my sides, I steel myself for the conversation that’ll be the most pivotal in my life, the one I avoided even when I was certain the lifeless shell in the hospital room would never house my mother again. If nothing else, perhaps the body is a portal where the message will be passed to her, wherever she is.

Sniffing back the liquid emotion threatening to extirpate my resolve, I march to the revolving doors of the hospital for the last time.