"No need to be nervous," the polite reporter says with a drawl as exaggerated as her makeup. Her bone-straight blond hair frames her face making her look like an actress instead of a local reporter. "We go live in about two minutes."

I nod and smooth my palms on my jeans.

The reporter mistakes my skittishness for nerves, but really I'm just readjusting to my body. It's been a week since the Big Tornado and I still haven't gotten used to being back in my skin. It's like wearing shoes a half-size too small; it feels alright for a little, but then the pain can't be ignored.

We stand in front of Aunt Shannon's house. The "miracle house" they're calling it on the national news. Most of Pachuck, including Colby's Pork and the high school was flattened in the storm. Even Mr. Thatcher's roof flew off. But Aunt Shannon's house stood as sturdy as the tree in the yard.

"Now, I'm just gonna ask you a few questions about your sleepover," says the reporter. "About how scary it must've been to be in the eye of the storm, you and your friends huddled in the shelter."

I smile, my stomach in knots. This is the story we've all agreed upon. Sheila, Bella, and I were painting each other's nails and talking about cute boys at school when the tornado struck. Mrs. Franderson was visiting Mom and talking about the latest episode of The Bachelor. After checking on Mr. Thatcher, Mom led us all to safety in the storm shelter where we waited out the tornado.

Reporters have flocked to us since the storm. They use words like tragic and how the tornado didn't just damage structures, it left emotional damage in its wake.

Yesterday morning after another sleepless night, Mercy found me rocking on Aunt Shannon's couch.

"How you feeling, sis?"

"Like shit."

She laughed, showing a row of gleaming teeth. It's still strange seeing Mercy's mannerisms in Bella's skin.

The wolf devoured everyone around it—Sheriff Colby, Aunt Shannon, Mercy in my body. For one, brief moment Mercy and I were dead together. In the ether, Aunt Shannon told me I was going back, that Whispering still needed to be done. Then, Bella offered the unthinkable: her body. She'd received the vengeance she needed to be free to move on, try another lifetime out even. Aunt Shannon warned against it, but Mercy really enjoyed being alive again, saying something about a hum that ran through the blood. Mr. Thatcher led Mom through the ritual, and guided us back, me in my body and Mercy spirit in Bella's. We decided to never tell Dad. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"But doesn't everyone feel weird?" I asked her. "Mercy, you're in a different body. Alex saw some crazy shit. Sheila was taken against your will. How are we supposed to act normal? Go about our days like we didn't face The Dust?"

Mercy played with my hair, like she used to do when were younger. But her touch isn't as gentle as it used to be. "You forget the past, Moriah. Forget, and move on."

Today, the sun shines so bright, I have to shield my eyes. It's much to cheerful considering a massacre occurred here, in this yard. Mr. Thatcher and Alex brought in a few guys from the Reservation to clear out the skin and bones left behind. I can't shake that memory, and the reporter is worried about the light.

"Can you check your mic for me?" The cameraman asks me. His hair flops in his eyes, he pushes the strands back with his forearm.

"Um, mic check, mic check."

All of the attention embarrasses me. I couldn't get through it if it weren't for Mercy, Alex, and Sheila leaning on the hood of Cherry watching me speak timidly into the lapel mic on my Biggie Smalls shirt. It seemed appropriate to wear it. And Mercy didn't mind. Though it's taken some getting used to calling her Bella, since Sheila just wouldn't understand the whole resurrection thing.

"You feelin' OK?" Alex calls from the driveway. "Need some water?"

He's been like a helicopter lately. I pretend his hovering gets on my nerves, but I find it kind of cute. And I hope he doesn't stop anytime soon.

"Don't be so annoying," I call back.

"Don't be such an ass!"

"You like this ass!"

From here, I can see Sheila folding her arms across her chest. Even after everything we went through, she still doesn't approve of my cursing. I nod my head at her, "I'm sorry, Sheila, I forgot your rule."

"It's OK, Moriah," Sheila plods towards me. "But I'm only letting you get away with that foul mouth of yours because you look really pale and sick. Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

No, I'm not alright. I feel faint. And nauseated. Now that I've acknowledged my abilities, the whispers haven't stopped. The dead never stop their shrill call. Even now as the reporter flashes her shiny, white teeth at me, I can hear Sheriff Colby's whimpers, begging me to let him live again.

"OK, Moriah, we're about to go live," the reporter tells me. "Just look at me. Not the camera."

The world spins. Too fast. My breath comes out in spurts. I can't do this. I teeter forward. My face will smack the dirt. On live TV.

"Moriah, baby, take a seat." I don't know how she was able to move to my side so fast, but Mom is here, taking me by the arm, guiding me to the bottom step.

Close to the spot Colt died.

I lose it, my face reddening from the tears.

"It's OK," Mom murmurs. "It's been a lot. A whole lot. But I'm here. And you don't have to give this interview if you don't want to."

"But we're about to go live!" The reporter cries.

"I don't care." The venom in my mom's voice makes the reporter take a few steps backwards. "My daughter is suffering trauma. And right now she doesn't need any of this," Mom motions to the reporter's microphone and the camera, "bringing it all back up. I'm sorry, but she won't be giving an interview today."

And for once, I'm not the one holding Mom after her emotions have gotten the best of her. She allows me to rest my head on her shoulder as she leads me into Aunt Shannon's. And I let her. I won't wrestle with her anymore.