“Are you alone?” I ask. It’s late; Megan and her mom are sleeping.

“Yeah, just listening to some music,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “I’m back in regular clothes, and the scabs don’t itch as much. My tongue doesn’t feel like I pierced it anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“I still look like I got beat up.”

“At least you’re feeling better.”

I listen to Matt inhale and exhale; it makes me shiver.

“Listen, Matt,” I begin. “I want to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome… again,” he says with a little laugh.

“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. You saved my life. I owe you—”

“Naw,” Matt interrupts gently. “We’re even.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For… you saving me, too,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t think I’d have gotten through Audrey’s death without knowing you were there for me. Even though we didn’t talk much, having you in my life… That was enough. It helped. It was huge. I know I’m never going to get over it completely—I wouldn’t want to—but now I feel like I can actually deal, and I owe that to you.”

We’re quiet for a few seconds. I think about how odd it is that after Audrey died, when I didn’t hear from Matt, I spent a lot of time wondering if he was slipping away. I didn’t know it, but he was holding on for dear life.

“I was about to tell you something right before everything happened in Hayes,” I say. “Right before you clicked over to the other line.”

“What’s that?” Matt asks in a low tone.

I take a deep breath and decide to go for it.

“I was going to say that I love you.”

I hear a quick exhale on the other end of the line.

“And if you had,” Matt says, strong and sexy, “I would have said that I love you, too.”

Two weeks and one day after Mason dropped me off, he’s back. He says we’re flying out the next day, back to Omaha. I bounce with excitement until he slams me back to earth.

“We’re being relocated again,” he reports.

“But why?” I ask. “God and Cassie are in custody. And I died in Texas. Everyone in Omaha thinks I’m out sick.”

“Not everyone,” Mason says, looking at me pointedly.

I stare at him, confused.

“The director is aware that Matt was the one who called nine-one-one,” Mason continues. “That someone you went to school with in Omaha knows you died.”

“But Matt knows I’m alive,” I protest. “He knows about the program,” I acknowledge aloud.

“I know that, but the director doesn’t,” Mason says.

“You lied?”

“Of course I lied,” Mason says. “I was protecting you.”

“But Mason, Revive didn’t even bring me back,” I say. “I can go back to school and tell everyone that I was miraculously saved by normal modern medicine after a bee attack. Everyone will be so impressed.”

“That’s the director’s fear,” Mason says.

“What?”

“That this will draw attention to you,” he clarifies. “That if you go back and say you were saved from a bee attack, the news will report on you. People will look into your background. There’s potential for exposure.”

I’m quiet, unsure what to say. Mason looks at me with tired eyes.

“Daisy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s better this way.”

“What way?” I ask, anger rising in me.

“It’s better if we go quietly.”

“Better for who?” I ask, ready to burst. And then, with a few simple words, Mason changes everything.

“Matt,” he says. “It’s better for Matt.”

The house in Omaha already feels foreign; I guess my brain knows when it’s time to go. This time, though, my heart wants to stay.

Mason gives me three hours to pack the critical items; the cleanup crew will ship the rest. I spend one hour halfheartedly tossing clothes and books into my suitcase, then I text Matt, asking him to pick me up down the block. I thump my suitcase down the stairs and leave it in the entryway for Mason to carry out to the car.

Mason’s in the basement when I leave. Maybe I’ll make it back before he surfaces; maybe I won’t. Either way, seeing Matt right now isn’t optional. I slip out the front door into the crisp afternoon air, then button my jacket, surprised by the wintery chill. I walk two blocks and stop on the corner, only long enough to blow on my hands once before Matt arrives.

The seconds after I climb into his car and shut the door are like the silence between songs on your most emotional playlist. It’s a break in the action; the world stops spinning for a few beats. But you know something’s coming.

And then it does.

Matt puts his hands on my cheeks, cupping my jawbones. His powerful eyes are more intense than I’ve ever seen them. Captivated, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. He holds my face for a moment, staring. And then…

“Don’t die,” he says lowly, his voice cracking a little.

“I won’t,” I promise, hoping I’m telling the truth.

“I mean it,” he says. “I can’t take anything happening to you.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing on to his forearms, holding him holding me.

“Take your damn EpiPen to school,” he says.

I laugh, a quick exhale. “I will.”

“And stay away from bees,” he continues. “In fact, just stay inside.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing again.

“And…” Matt moves closer; his face is inches from mine. “Stay.”

It’s like a punch to the chest; tears fill my eyes. Matt’s expression is so raw, so brutally honest, I want to find a reason to look away.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. I’m leaning sideways over the center console and the gearshift is digging into my hip and still, I’d stay like this for hours if I could. I’ve never been more comfortable. I’ve never been warmer. Here in Matt’s arms, I’m reminded again:

I’ve never belonged anywhere but here.

Nomadic as I am, I try hard to see the positives about our new hometown of Alameda, California. A little island between Oakland and San Francisco, Alameda is the sort of homey place that a person could really love… if her heart wasn’t stuck somewhere in Middle America.

And yet, I try. Touring the city, I make mental lists of Alameda’s pros:

It’s hard to keep my head in this state. But Mason does his best to help.

When we drive into town two days before I start tenth grade for what I hope is the last time, he pulls into a driveway I mistake for someone else’s.

“Are you lost?” I ask, looking at the Victorian that could be a movie set.

“Nope,” he says, smiling and craning his neck to see the top of the three-story dwelling.

“Mason, are you messing with me?” I ask, eyeing the wraparound porch skeptically.

“I’m not messing with you,” he says, laughing. “It’s bigger than we need, but it’s a historic home and I like it. Plus, you never know—our family might grow someday.”

Before I have time to ask more about that last statement, Mason jumps out and heads up the front steps. He waves at me to follow.

When I walk through the door, I’m awestruck. For what Mason reports is over a century, this home was clearly loved. And why not? There’s dark wood trim and paneling along the grand staircase. There are built-in library shelves that make me want to live right in the sitting room. The kitchen is bright and airy, with modern appliances; the living room is massive. And there are five bedrooms. “I get my own bathroom,” I say. “And look at this closet!”