ONCE THE MEAT AND BONES FINISH BURNING, and Dahlia douses the fire, we gather our things and head back to Bertha. Marisol turns the radio on and flips through the stations. Most of them are playing the same tinny pop song. The few that aren't are talking about one thing and one thing only: What happened to the sun? There's a conspiracy theorist on the high school station claiming it's aliens or maybe climate change but definitely at least a little bit aliens, and a gruff-voiced conservative talk show host saying everything's fine because the president said not to panic, and, of course, several others talking about those fucking Russians.

There is not a single mention of what is—to me, at least—obvious: Apollo, the sun-god.

"So what do we do now?" Dahlia asks.

Silence, except for the mindless chatter of the radio. They're all looking at me. Dahlia and Marisol through the rearview mirror, their raised eyes looking like they're perpetually rolling them. Ezra less discreetly, staring openly at me, his entire head turned sideways.

What do we do now?

There is a voice in the back of my head, the old me, the Antigone I wish I could have left behind on Apollonisi for good. (Or maybe it's the voice of Apollo, speaking directly to me. Sometimes, my voice and the voice of my gods are one and the same.) Kill them. Kill them all, or at least one of them. You have your suspicions that it isn't Ezra, that it's one of the girls. Kill one of them and get it over with. It's the only way for any of this to end, for your mother to survive, to bring the sun back to the Sunshine State.

But I am sick to death of all the violence, all the bloodshed.

There has to be another way.

What if I'm honest? What if I tell them the truth about what I'm doing? Maybe they can help me come up with a better solution, one that doesn't end in murder or the death of my mother.

So I take a deep breath.

"Apollo wants me to kill one of you."

"What?" Dahlia says.

"Did you get that from the sacrifice?" Marisol asks.

"Me, me, me!" Ezra raises his hand. "I volunteer!"

I snatch his hand down. "Nobody is going to die."

Marisol turns around in her seat to face me. "Antigone, what the fuck is going on?"

"That first night," I explain. "Back on Apollonisi. Apollo told me that one of you three is his child from the prophecy. And he ordered me to figure out which one of you it is, and kill you. If I don't, he's going to kill my mother."

"You're not gonna do it, are you?" Dahlia asks. "Kill one of us, I mean."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," I admit.

There's this heavy thickness that settles over the car, making everyone move in slow motion. Maybe they're scared to make any sudden movements—maybe they're scared I'm going to kill them if they do. Except even I feel the effects of it, weighing my limbs down, making it damn near impossible to move.

"I'm not going to," I add, quickly, to the silence that follows my assertion. "I don't want anyone to die. I just—I don't know what to do. I need to do what's right, but neither of my options are right. Killing someone I think of as family, or letting my mother die? Those are both—those are both so fucked-up."

"You think of us as family?" Dahlia asks.

"I left my family and my home behind. You guys are all I have anymore."

"My only family died," Ezra adds. "I haven't had—a home, or people that care about me in, like, a real way, since I was fourteen."

I lean my head on his shoulder.

Dahlia, as always, looks on the verge of tears. "You guys," is all she says.

"So we're a family, then," Marisol says, like she's deciding this for us. "And if my parents have taught me anything—"

"No need to flex," Ezra says.

"Shut up and don't ruin the moment," she snaps. "If my parents have taught me anything, it's that families stick together. No matter what. Even if a god has ordered you to kill one of your family-members or else that god will kill another family-member of yours. And families don't let each other do fucked-up shit. So we're going to figure out a way to get you out of this, Tiggy. Together."

My father choses that moment to teleport inside the car.

He plops down on the middle seat between Ezra and me, causing me to lean my head on his shoulder instead. Speaking of ruining the moment. He's taken on his usual appearance—golden skin, luscious dark hair cascading to his shoulders, these magic-seeming tawny eyes that seem twinkle like a ritual fire. He's pretty twinkish, as my new friends would describe him, thin and sort of boyishly charming, and definitely of a Chinese background. It's obvious by looking at him that some attempt was made at presenting a more modern appearance—he's dressed in leopard-print joggers, a pair of bright green Crocs, and nothing else, with gold highlight streaking up and down his upper body. It's just as obvious that he knows next-to-nothing about modern fashion trends.

Dahlia screams, which sets off a chain reaction as everyone in the car—including Dionysus—follows suit. Shrieking, Marisol flings herself out of the car, stumbling over the pavement in her desperation to get out. This sets off another chain reaction, all of us piling out to the parking lot, moving so we're standing in a semi-circle on one side of the car, a hive mind.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Marisol yells.

Dionysus looks wildly around, his arms spread out as if he's trying to calm a feral animal. I'm here to help you! he promises, in Greek.

"LIKE A GOOD NEIGHBOR, STATE FARM IS THERE!" Ezra sing-yells. "That was fast."

I am not State Farm, Dionysus says, still speaking my mother tongue, despite his apparent ability to understand English. I am Dionysus.

Ezra is staring at him, slack-jawed, his skin so pale it's as if he can't decide if he's looking at a ghost, or if he is one.

"Dionysus?" Dahlia's eyes widen. Hesitantly, she drops to her knees, looking sideways at me for assurance that she's doing the right thing. "Um, forgive me, um—sir? What, like, pronouns do you use, you know? Like not actual pronouns but like—am I supposed to call you sir? That seems weird. You're wearing Crocs. It seems weird to call someone wearing Crocs sir."

I am not entirely a man but not a woman either, Dionysus explains. Whatever pronouns you deem fit to call me will suffice.

"Oh. Oh! Oh, okay, so, you're, like, non-binary, huh? That's what's up. I'm—um—I'm actually, like, trans, too, you know? I use—um, she/her, please. Pleased to, um—pleased to face you? Oh, my God. That's so not right. Pleased to meet you. I'm, um. Dahlia." She climbs to her feet and dusts off her knees, offering her hand out for my father to shake. "Please don't kill me. I'm so sorry. I've never met a god before that wasn't trying to kill me, and that was just the one. This is all so new to me. I don't really know what I'm supposed to say. Is there something I'm supposed to say? Like, when you greet a cowboy, you're supposed to say yeehaw? Am I supposed to say yeehaw? Yeehaw! Are you going to kill me?"

Let me guess, he says, tapping his finger against his chin. It was Zeus.

"What?" Dahlia blanches.

That tried to kill you. Dionysus cooly leans against the trunk, crossing his arms over his chest. It's always Zeus, that bastard. Sorry, Dad! Love ya! He yells this last bit up to the sky, then winks at me. I don't, not really. Who could love a father like that?

"It was Apollo," I say. "That's why we need your help. Because—"

Oh, please, I'm only teasing. He waves his hands dismissively. I know alllllllllll about your little pre-dinky-dink.

"What do we need to do?" Marisol asks.

Well, isn't it obvious? You four need to return to Apollonisi.

Ezra is still staring, staring.

"Back into the belly of the beast?" Marisol puts a hand to her hip. "I don't think so. I'm grounded. I can't go anywhere. I need to be getting back home before my mom loses it."

You're in danger here, Dionysus says. Apollo is going to kill you if you don't.

"I'd like to see him try."

So many words we used to describe mortals back home—weak, feeble, powerless. But Marisol drips with mortality in the way a god shimmers in their divinity. Her face is covered in zits, the mark of youth, thinly veiled beneath her concealer. If you poke one of them hard enough, she bleeds. All that vulnerability so plain on her skin, an Achilles' heel everyone can see.

Her eyeliner isn't even. Her nose ring is crooked. Her skin sags in some places and curves in others and lays flat against the bone in the rest. Her chin, when she smiles or looks down at her phone, doubles, triples. Her thighs, her hips, her stomach, even her arms are lined in jagged white stretch marks. All these things, so mortal, so human, so beautiful, so Marisol. They say I'm going to die one day, but look what I've survived.

Her mortality is a sign of her strength, draped around her shoulders like armor. For a moment, I'm convinced that she could stand a chance against Apollo. Then I remember: she is hardly nineteen years old, has never been in a real fight before, has no special powers that we know of or training under her belt, is going to die one day. And he's a god. Not just any god, but Apollo. God of gods.

"Marisol!" Dahlia grabs onto her arm. "No, no, you would not like that."

He won't just kill you, Dionysus clarifies. It's not just your own life you're risking. Antigone's. Dahlia's. Ezra's. Maybe even your parents, your little brother, your friends from your dance team or that theatre you go to. And he can't technically kill me, I'm immortal, but he's going to make my life a living hell for the next millennium or so while you all rot in it. Do you want to be responsible for all of their deaths? And—Heaven's forbid!—my endurance of my brother's torture?

"That's a logical fallacy," Marisol replies. Then, testing the waters: "Asshole."

Why is she calling me an asshole? Dionysus whispers to me. She can't do that.

"Because you're making me realize that my actions might have consequences that affect people other than myself. And it's making me listen to you. Even though I know you're using logical fallacies, goddammit!" Marisol exclaims.

You just called me an asshole, Dionysus replies, his lips slightly parted and his eyebrows furrowed, seeming unable to focus on anything other than this. Me. I'm a god. You can't call a god an asshole!

"I'll do it again. Asshole." Marisol's doing her nervous giggling. "Why not? We're gonna need to kill a god before any of this is over. So what's the harm in calling one of y'all an asshole? I'm just getting warmed up."

"Marisol," I warn.

"Yeah, Marisol, stop it," Dahlia says.

What? Dionysus asks. We're not going to kill a god.

"Then what are we going to do?" Marisol asks.

We're going to find the actual child from the prophecy, Dionysus explains. Maybe it isn't any of you. Then Apollo will kill the kid, or the kid'll become a god. Either way. Problem solved.

"And someone still dies."

You missed half of my plan! Dionysus argues. They might become a god!

Marisol arches an eyebrow. "Not a risk I'm willing to take."

Fine, then. It's your life to live. Dionysus shrugs. Or should I say it's your life to lose, 'cause that's what's gonna happen if you don't listen to me. Apollo will kill all four of you, and likely anyone close to you, too. He'll also never bring the sun back. Do you know what's gonna happen without the sun? People are going to die. Not just you four. Millions of people. Billions. Maybe he'll even start another plague, just to keep things spicy. You don't know what gods are capable of, what he's capable of. But if we go through with my plan, then no matter what happens, only one person will die. Apollo, or his child. Just one death, compared to countless.

"Marisol, please," Dahlia begs. "Please, let's just go, let's just listen to him. It doesn't sound like we have much of a choice."

"Fine. I'll do it." Marisol indignantly sticks her finger up in the air. "But I'm gonna complain the whole way."

Great! Excellent! Wonderful, really! Dionysus magics a Capri-Sun pouch into being and takes a long sip from it out the side of his mouth. One last thing before we go. To make things easier on you lot. It has come to my attention that one of you is definitely not Apollo's child. Because one of you sprang from my loins.

Ezra makes a point out of looking at his shoes, folding his hands behind his back. Marisol and Dahlia make a point out of looking at each other and then at Ezra. Everyone makes a point out of not looking at Dionysus.

Marisol— Dionysus begins —would you please be a dear and move to the side so I can hug my son?