Chapter 2

I put the lid back on the box, gently. Then I let my face crumple.

"I..." My voice came out cracked. Perfect. "I've never had anything like this before."

Camille stopped smiling. Margaret's face shifted into something softer, more confused.

"I want to save it. For tomorrow. My birthday." I dragged a sleeve across my eyes. "I want to make a wish first. It would mean... it would mean so much..."

The crying came easy. It always had. Eighteen years of practice, perfecting the art of making adults feel guilty. Tears were currency. I'd bought my way out of beatings with them. I could buy my way out of this.

"Oh, honey." Margaret reached for me. "You don't have to wait. There'll be plenty—"

"Just one bite," Camille said, and there was an edge under the sweetness now. She slid the box forward again. "One bite. Save the rest."

I jerked back and let my voice rise. "I said tomorrow! Why do you keep pushing? You've asked me three times now. It's like you want me dead."

Silence.

Margaret and Camille looked at each other. Just for a second. Then Margaret was all warmth again, reaching out with both arms. "Sweetheart. No one is trying to hurt you—"

I ducked past her and ran for the bedroom door. "Leave me alone! I'll eat it tomorrow!"

I slammed the door and locked it.

The hallway went quiet. I heard Margaret say something low, Camille answer, footsteps retreating.

I slid down the door and sat on the floor.

My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe.

I stared at the box in my hands. The ribbon cut into my palm. One at a time, I peeled my fingers open. Set it on the desk. Lifted the lid.

The cake sat there, dark and glossy. It smelled like cocoa and something else—something underneath, faint and unfamiliar.

I didn't eat it.

I took it out, wrapped it in the parchment, and hid it in the inner pocket of my jacket. Then I put a chocolate muffin I'd pocketed from the breakfast basket that morning into the box—same size, same shape, close enough in color—and tied the ribbon back.

When it was done, I put the box on my nightstand where anyone could see it and zipped the jacket shut.

My hands were still shaking when I opened the door.

The hallway was empty. I went down the back stairs.

Outside, the air was cold and damp. I called a cab and gave the driver the address of the group home.

In the back seat, I held the cake through its parchment. Turned it over. One little bomb.

Soul swap. Body swap. Gutter. Dead.

I kept waiting for the absurdity to hit me. It didn't. Margaret's eyes had been too eager. The warnings had been too specific. Enemies. A gutter. Dead. Nobody made that up.

The cab stopped. I paid and walked through the rusted gate.

The group home was dark, kids asleep, with one window lit in the staff office. I knew the way blindfolded. Back path, past the dead tree, to the little room at the end.

Three knocks. Pause. Two knocks.

"Who's there?" A thin voice.

"June. It's me."

The door opened. June in her wheelchair, looking up.