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Catty screams until there’s no air left inside her lungs, and then her body just kind of deflates, slumps back onto the grass, knees drawn into her chest. Alice ditches the bike, but doesn’t go up to her, not yet, can practically feel the anger wicking off her sister in waves, like gas fumes waiting for a match.

That week, in chemistry, they’d learned how to douse a flame, not with water but the shiny fireproof blanket behind the teacher’s desk, watched as he unfurled the sheet and let it fall, tamping it down over the blaze, and Alice wishes she could do the same to Catty’s temper, wishes she could fall on her sister and smother the heat.

But she can’t, so she just sinks into the grass a few feet from Catty as she glares into the distance. “ Pregnant. ”

She spits the word between her teeth like a watermelon seed.

Alice chews her lip and wonders what bothers Catty more, the idea of being outnumbered, her father moving on, or the fact someone in the house will finally have a reason to call Eloise Mum.

(A small, traitorous part of her thinks it could be nice, having a little brother.) But of course Alice can’t say that so she says nothing, just sinks her fingers into the frigid earth instead, imagines she is growing roots, tendrils reaching down and out until she can touch Catty without touching her.

The silence stretches heavy, settles cold, until Catty says, “We have a mum,” and Alice says, “I know.”

“We don’t need her.”

And Alice says, again, “I know,” trying not to think about Eloise wrapping a fresh towel around her shoulders last week, after they got caught in the rain.

Catty digs a cigarette out of her hoodie, nicked from Dad’s stash even though he told Eloise he quit when she moved in.

She’s got a book of matches, too, swiped from Granddad’s pub, and it takes her three tries to get a light, but then the matchstick catches with a hiss.

Catty lifts the flame to the tip, inhales, and doesn’t even cough, just holds the smoke inside and then lets it come spilling through her teeth.

Alice wrinkles up her nose, but then Catty holds it out, and it might as well be a sacred offering.

As good as saying I forgive you but also It’s us and them and Alice is so relieved to still be us that she takes the cigarette and drags in until the tip flares red, and a whole fireplace kicks off in her lungs.

She coughs, and coughs, and when she finally stops, she feels dizzy, and doesn’t know if it’s the smoke or the nicotine or the lack of air, and Catty just pats her on the back and puts the end between her lips again, looks up at the cloud-strewn sky.

“You remember her, right?”

There’s a tremor in her voice, and Alice realizes she’s not angry, she’s afraid, of being the only one who does.

Alice nods, but here’s the thing: she doesn’t.

She knows Mum was a journalist, the kind that went all around the world. There are photos tacked on Catty’s wall—Mum reading on a beach in San Diego, sipping tea in a pastry shop in Tokyo, smiling, eyes closed, beneath a turning maple in Boston.

(That last one has always been her favorite, because of the leaves; she didn’t know they could turn that shade of yellow, a crown so bright it blurred.)

She knows these things, but there are no memories to go with them, and the few she has are like tea bags used too many times, all the flavor fading till it’s just tinted water.

Alice wishes she remembered the cadence of her mother’s laugh, the scent of her shampoo, what she said when she tucked her into bed.

A plane slips overhead, leaving a tiny chalk trail. Catty watches it go. “Remember when she told us about her trip to New Zealand?”

Alice nods. “Yeah,” she lies. “But tell me again.”

And Catty looks at her—

A sad smile playing on her lips as she takes a breath and—

The man’s hand tightens on Alice’s knee.

A playful little squeeze that flings her back into her body.

Makes her want to crawl out of her skin.

He smiles, and Alice wonders if he can feel her fear the way she tastes his want, if it is a predatory gift.

They’ve crossed the bridge, and the Boston streets are whizzing by, and she just wants this to be over, wonders where they’re headed, and as if he can read her mind, his dry mouth twitches and he says, “You’re awfully far from home.”

Alice shivers, thinking he somehow knows where she goes to school, until he ventures, “Scotland?” And of course, he’s just referring to her accent.

Alice nods. “Needed a fresh start.”

Before and after. Then and now.

“Is that so?”

She hates this strained attempt at small talk.

Every word feels like it’s pulling too much weight.

But soon enough he pulls into a high-rise’s resident garage.

He parks, and unbuckles his seat belt, and she expects him to unlock the car, open the door for her again, lead her up to some minimalist loft with harbor views.

But instead, he just turns toward her, waiting, as if she’s supposed to know what happens next, only she doesn’t, which he seems to like even more. He takes her hand and guides it toward his crotch, and she can’t stomach the thought of that, the recoil strong enough to spur her into motion.

Alice swallows, and then climbs over the center console, and onto his lap, and up close, he smells like money on display.

Expensive metal and too much cologne, and beneath it, want, and need, and blood.

She can feel the hardness of him through the too-thin layers of his suit, and he starts murmuring a breathy stream of “Good girl” and “There you go” and “You like that?”

And she doesn’t.

The only thing she likes is that he’s there beneath her, his head lolling back as she shifts her weight against his lap, exposing the pale column of his throat, the only throbbing part of him she cares about, met by the only part of her that answers—teeth going sharp inside her mouth, denting and then pricking into her bottom lip.

She leans forward, but before she can reach his neck, his head drops down again, his face level with hers, as his left hand vises around her thigh, and the other reaches between their bodies for the button of his slacks.

He starts to unzip, but her hand clamps down on his.

“Wait,” she says, and the panic in her voice makes his eyes narrow, annoyance flickering across his face.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he warns, knocking her hand away. “What, you need a little coaxing?”

He grabs her waistband, pulling her flush against him, fingers worming down the front of her jeans as he frees himself with his other hand, and the car is too small, the space too tight, and Alice can’t get back, so she goes forward, falls against him and hits the recline lever on the side of the seat.

It gives, and they tumble backward, and in that off-kilter moment, she sinks her teeth into his throat.

Blood sprays into her mouth, like a gulp of air after too long below water, and this time there is no moment when the world drops out, no lapse in time, just Alice, and the blood spilling across her tongue, and down her throat, lining the inside of her skin as the man beneath her fights, rakes at her face, kicks the car horn, and he is twice her size, and strong, but she is stronger, and as she drinks, his pulse becomes her own, a heavy beat, and it’s like the lights come on inside her, and she feels right again, good again, as his heart pounds inside her chest.

He grabs her by the shoulders, tries to force her off, and there, at last, is his terror (like a grace note on her tongue). Her fangs sink deeper, jaw clenching until she feels the give of cartilage, hears the scream through his vocal cords, teeth humming like a tuning fork.

Alice doesn’t let go.

She drinks until her body loosens, every twisted cable in her going slack, drinks until the man’s pulse stops sprinting and begins to limp.

A song hitting the last chorus. She drinks until at last he slumps, lifeless, in the seat beneath her, teeth sliding free as if on instinct, jaw loosening the moment the pulse drags its feet to a stop.

And even then, the stolen heartbeat lingers in her chest, so long she thinks that maybe it will stay, beating behind her ribs.

But finally, it trails off, too.

And she is plunged back into stillness.

Alice looks down at the body beneath hers, his eyes open and empty, his mouth ajar, and waits for the shock of what she’s done to pass, waits for the swell of horror to come rushing in its wake.

The revulsion. The guilt.

But the truth is, the only thing she feels now is relief. Because the thirst is finally gone. The headache is gone. And even though the heartbeat is gone, too, she feels alive again. Revived.

As the seconds tick by, Alice understands that she is not okay.

This isn’t something that will pass, like a sickness or a storm.

That whatever’s happened to her, there is no going back.

She climbs off the body, and into the passenger seat, the scratches on her face already healed. Beside her, the man’s throat is a bloody mess, a ragged seam. But as she watches, the skin there begins to knit, and close, leaving nothing but a few wayward drops of blood along the collar of his shirt.

She forces herself to reach back toward him, freeing the leather wallet from the pocket of his slacks, takes three twenties, and gets out, careful not to leave any prints on the billfold or the handle (she’s seen enough detective shows).

As the door swings shut, she catches her reflection in the tinted window.

And for the first time, she sees the change.

There’s no sudden beauty. No clear skin, or shining curls.

But the Alice who looks back is undeniably new.