The curtain blocked Hannah's view of her mom's bed. Two silhouettes bobbed around behind it... probably stupid doctors.

Dad knelt down. "Hey princess," he said. "You need to talk to Mom. Forget about the paintings, okay? That was your dad's stupid idea..."

She pulled up her blouse to reveal the note tucked in her skirt, then slipped it out and handed it to her father.

"Is this for Mom?"

She tightened her lips and shook her head.

"For me?"

She nodded. She watched him unfold the letter. She watched him read it.

He seemed interested at first... then his face dropped. Hannah felt the anger as his forehead grew redder and redder. She had never been hit... not ever... but she knew it was coming now. And she deserved it.

Or maybe Dad would cry for the first time ever. Maybe he would feel so bad about all the horrible things that he would grab her and hold her and they would go home and everything would go back to normal. Mom would make her lunches with extra preserves and send her to school, waiting at home, arms wide open when she returned. Or summers in the garden picking strawberries—not the white ones—shooing away mosquitos before they could bite; that tender touch while layering aloe on sunburnt back and legs. Or winter, bundled up in blankets by the fire, Dad watching It's a Wonderful Life and Mom reading by lamplight, listening to the wind through the attic of their rickety old house, spilling hot cocoa and soaking it up with too many paper towels.

But then Dad noticed the fingerprint of dust in the corner of the note. He ran his thumb across it and he knew. His eyes flared red, tears welled up, and he mouthed two words with all the anger in the world, "Get out." And Hannah ran.

* * *

The rapid pattering of Hannah's steps reverberated through every surface of the hall. Except for a few nurses typing away at computers and a lonely security guard reading a book in the lobby, her world was empty.

She exploded through the revolving door and stumbled into the night. The sky was hazy orange instead of nighttime black and the parking lot was lit by tall yellow lamps.

She treaded up a small bluff that overlooked the hospital. She sat down and brushed her fingers across the cool blades of grass.

A pair of headlights slid through the parking lot, then turned onto the street and out of view. Hannah studied their path.

* * *

The wine was gone, but that didn't stop Grandpa Dan from drinking. Three times Gavin watched him turn his back to sip from a flask hidden in his jacket. "Flying cars and artificial intelligence are still decades away, but in a few years, everybody's gonna watch movies on the internet!"

"Cool!" Jonny said.

"Things are gonna take off. We're living on the elbow of an exponential increase in technology, spurred by our ability to share information with the click of a button. For the first time ever, scientists can work together from anywhere in the world! I can publish my findings online, and my peers in Japan can read them instantly. If kids stay motivated to learn, they'll be able to research any topic without leaving their room. Even now, little Jonny knows more about the world than the best scientists of the nineteen-hundreds."

Jon grinned. "For real?"

"For real! Did you know you're getting the very best care in the world for your disease?"

"Really?"

"Yep. Right here in the midwest. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"If you had A-L-L fifteen years ago," he lowered his voice, "they wouldn't be able to cure you at all!"

"Really?"

"Really."

"I'm pretty lucky then, huh?"

"Science, my boy. It's what's gonna cure you."

"And prayer," Mom interjected from the windowsill. "Your family's prayers are what keep you healthy so the doctors can kill the disease."

Jon smiled. "I know, ma."

Grandpa shifted his weight from his bad leg. "Last September, scientists performed the first successful hand transplant on a French prisoner. Tell me, Su, can prayer make a hand grow back?"

Mom dropped her feet to the tile and stood straight.

Before she could respond to the question, Jon piped up. "Hey Grandpa... have you ever prayed?"

"Jonathon Nightly," Mom said. "We don't ask those—"

"It's okay, Su," Grandpa said. "It's a valid question. Do I have permission to give an honest answer?"

Gavin was certain his mother would drag the old man to the hall by his ear. Instead, she shrugged and said, "My boys are firm in their faith. Say what you will."

Grandpa's eye flinched. He turned to the bed. "Yes, Jonny. I've prayed before."

Jon folded his hands on his lap. "When you were done, did it give you a warm feeling in your heart like a giant hug? Like—just for a few seconds—everything was peaceful?"

"Yes it did."

"Don't you think that means that God's really up there?"

"Well, I thought so at the time. And for several days I wondered why I felt that way. But instead of jumping to conclusions, I decided to research it for myself."

"What'd you find?"

"I found out that God isn't the only god that gives people that special feeling. Muslims worship Allah, but they get the same feeling when they pray. Mormons do too. They call it a 'burning in the bosom.' Atheists describe the same feeling when they look at good art or attend a fun concert. So I asked myself, why do all these other people have the same experience? Are there really lots of gods that make people feel peaceful after they pray? It didn't seem very realistic that every religion could be right, so I did some more research."

"You do lots of research, huh?"

"It's how we learn about our world."

"Wha'd you figure out?"

"I figured out that the feeling something everybody feels, even if they don't believe the same things you do. It's a way of tricking our brain into releasing endorphins which make us happy. Since science could explain the feeling, I decided that must not come from God."

Jon's eyes darted between his parents and Grandpa.

"George," Mom said. "Why don't you go check on Doctor Manning?"

"What's the matter, Su?" Grandpa asked. "Did my response bother you?"

"It was a fine response," Dad said. "We're not getting into it tonight."

"If someone has a problem with my worldview, I'd like to know about it."

Finally, it happened. The tension broke and Mom marched across the room with her finger aimed at Grandpa and stopped when it touched his chest. Her eyes hung two full inches above his head. "You're a false prophet, Daniel. You rant about science like it's the only truth we need, but I can assure you, there are things in this world that science can't answer."

"You know what's funny, Susan? You can believe in God all you want. Hell, you can shout your beliefs to the mountains and do a little dance and teach it to your children. But no amount of belief can turn fairytales into reality. You indoctrinate your kids with the fear of eternal damnation and the promise of paradise. You teach them to ignore evidence. I only wish there was a moment before death when believers discover they're wrong; just a single second when they recognize that there's nothing waiting on the other side, that their consciousness is about to vanish and they'll only exist as heap of dry, lifeless bones."

Gavin watched Grandpa with gaping eyes. Jon looked out the window. Mom gasped once, hard, then turned away.

"Get out," Dad said.

Grandpa shook his head. "I didn't mean that... I... I think I had too much wine."

"Dad—"

"Let me stay for the good news. Please—"

"Dad."

"The doctor will be here soon and—"

"No Dad. Get out. Now."

* * *

Hannah laid in the parking lot and watched moths swarm the lamp above her. Somewhere behind the moths, lamp, and haze were the stars.

Was there really another universe out there? she wondered. What does it look like?

A set of headlights appeared on the other side of the lot. She took a deep breath and studied the car's path. It seemed to be heading right at her... then it changed directions and zipped thirty feet to her right.

She pulled herself off the ground, walked thirty feet, and laid back down.

* * *

Grandpa was gone and Jon was crying and Mom and Dad were snarling at each other like dogs.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Gavin assured his little brother.

"Why did Grandpa say that?"

"Remember that time I had the flu and drank a half bottle of NyQuil?"

A smile appeared between Jon's tears. "It made you act like a butthead. Then you fell asleep."

"It's the same thing with Grandpa Dan."

A man's voice called from the hallway and pushed through the pent-up anger. "Hannah?"

Mom and Dad were too busy arguing to notice the voice.

"Hannah!" it said again—louder this time—and Gavin jumped from the bed and tore through the door. Mom called his name but he didn't stop.

Hannah's dad looked lost in the hallway. One hand on the wall, he might have been a patient if he wasn't wearing such fancy clothes. Gav made brief eye contact with him, then darted in the opposite direction.

The flowers were still crushed beneath the stairwell door, but he didn't dwell. He had to find Hannah.

Thanks to a tip from David the security guard, Gavin found himself outside the revolving doors, staring at a dark lot with a pair of yellow circles cast from the overhead lamps. No Hannah.

He looked right and saw a grassy hill with a row of trees on top. It's worth a shot, he thought, and started the climb.

Behind him, keys rattled against pavement. "Goddamnit," said an old man as he stooped to pick them up.

It was Grandpa Dan. He stumbled toward his battered Continental, unlocked the door on his third try, plopped in the driver's seat, and turned the engine. The car lurched forward.

Just before Gavin finished his trek up the hill, Grandpa's headlights caught the edge of a white blouse on the ground. They swept right, and the blouse disappeared into darkness.

It was Hannah.

Grandpa looped around the median, turned toward the girl, and accelerated.

Gavin screamed so loudly—"Grandpa!"—that his voice box snapped and his next three words came out with an impossible rasp. "Stop the car!" He bolted down the hill with his arms in the air, but the car only barreled faster toward the little girl.

Gavin tried to scream again, but his voice was gone. He fell to the ground, closed his eyes, and prayed, "Please God, make him stop!"

* * *

Hannah heard the car but refused to open her eyes. It was faster than the last three. Angrier. The headlights flared behind her eyelids with a brilliant amber burst and she snapped her head away.

In the distance, a boy screamed her name. "HANNAH!"

Rubber twisted on pavement and screeched so loud that it burned her eardrums. She opened her eyes just in time to see a car careen and smash into the lamppost. The pole cracked at the base, sparked blue, bent toward her in slow-motion, and crashed to the ground an arms-length away from her head.

* * *

It worked! I made Grandpa stop!

Gavin watched the lightbulb pop as it connected with pavement and showered Hannah's tiny body with glass.

She stood. She didn't care about the scattered shards, but ambled toward Gav as the car fumed and the post sparked behind her.

"Hannah!" His voice was hoarse again. "Are you okay?"

She walked past him.

Gavin followed the girl up the hill. Behind them, Grandpa Dan fell from his car and sat Indian-style on the pavement.

"Hannah!" Gav said. "Wait up!"

Their shoes were already soaked from the fresh dew. Hannah reached the top of the hill, marched to the first tree, and slammed her fist into the jagged bark. Her left fist followed, then the right again, harder and harder until he grabbed her torso and wrestled her to the ground. The moonlight showed the blood on her fists.

Hannah wormed her way out of his grasp, stood, lowered her head like a crazed bull, and charged the trunk of the tree.

He whipped out his hand just in time to catch her heel and she tripped an inch before hitting the bark. He scrambled on top and pinned her to the dirt as her tiny body heaved against his. "Are you done?" he asked.

The punch came from below and clocked Gavin in the jaw. Pain surged through his teeth and temple as the girl fought against him, but he refused to let go.

When she couldn't struggle anymore, Hannah gave up. Her limbs sagged into the grass and Gavin held her body tight.

Suddenly, the girl wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him close. She pushed her face between his ribs, inhaled hard, and sobbed and sobbed into his swollen chest.

* * *

Gavin and Daniel were both absent when Doctor Manning revealed the good news: the chemotherapy and radiation worked, and Jonathon could go home the next morning.

The doctor spoke of future challenges—a three year pill regime, possible hormone problems, lower resistance to infection—but the Nightlys barely heard him. After years of heartbreak, they finally had a healthy little boy.

* * *

The clock in the hall said it was one in the morning. The only time Hannah could remember staying up this late was New Year's Eve.

Mom's door was closed. No sign of Dad. She pressed herself against the opposite wall as if the room was guarded by an invisible forcefield. As she crept sideways, she noticed her TrapperKeeper beneath the bench across the hall. With the speed of the Millennium Falcon, she pushed through the forcefield, gathered her crummy paintings, and dashed back.

She would tear them up later.

Voices in her mother's room. Her heart jittered and she searched for a way out. "Nightly," said the sign above her head.

Gavin's parents hauled him away almost three hours ago... but his little brother was probably still in that room. It was her only idea, so she sidestepped to the door, pushed her back against it, twirled inside, and closed it behind her.

The boy was in bed, awake, and aiming a flashlight a deck of playing cards on his lap. He scrambled when he heard the door and pointed the light right in her face. "Who's there?"

She squinted and clutched her paintings. "Hannah."

"Who?"

"Hannah Lasker." She took a few steps forward and blocked the beam with her hand. Despite his bony frame, the boy seemed softer than his brother, as if she could squeeze his body and her arm prints would be stuck in his skin like a memory-foam pillow. His eyes were green like Gavin's, but gentler. Also, he didn't have any hair. "That's really bright."

"Sorry," said the boy (what was his name again?) and he turned off the light. "Are you sick too?"

She shook her head.

His eyes shifted to the TrapperKeeper. "What's that?"

"Paintings."

"Yours?"

"Uh huh."

"Can I see them?"

She clutched the folder and shook her head.

"Okay... wanna see a magic trick instead?"

"I already saw a trick today."

"Oh."

As she moved closer, Hannah could see that she hurt his feelings. "But it was prolly a different trick." She set her TrapperKeeper on the bedside table... just out of the boy's reach. A chair assisted her climb to the foot of the bed and when she sat down, she felt a bony nub under her butt. The boy squirmed and pulled his leg back, leaving a comfortable spot for Hannah to sit.

He collapsed his game into a single deck and shuffled. "Okay. Pick a card, any card." He fanned them out and she plucked one from the middle. "Whoa," he said. "What happened to your hands?"

Hannah remembered her bloody knuckles and hid them with the card in her lap. "I got in trouble at school. Ms. Fleming hit them with a ruler."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah. But I didn't mind." She glanced at the seven of hearts. "Do I hafta remember my card?"

"Yep."

The boy paused to remember the next part of the trick. "Now put your card on top of the deck.

She obeyed, then blurted, "Are you gonna die?" She grabbed her lips and wished the question was real and floating in front of her so she could grab it and pull it back in.

"Well," he started, "we didn't know this morning... but then the doctors came in tonight and said I'm gonna be fine." He beamed with a toothy smile.

In a whole world of sickness, this boy was healthy.

He didn't say anything for a few seconds and Hannah wondered if she should say something nice. Before she could try, he handed her the deck and said, "Ready for the grand finale?"

She nodded.

"Make sure your card is still on top, then shuffle it however you want."

The seven of hearts was still on top. She shuffled. "Hey," she said, "what's your name again?"

"Jon."

She held out the shuffled deck. "Here ya go, Jon."

"Believe it or not, I'm gonna find your card." He began flipping the cards over one at a time. When the seven of hearts appeared, he paused, pinched the next card between his fingers, and said, "How much you wanna bet the next card I flip over is yours?"

"I don't have any money."

"Hmm... How 'bout, if I'm right, you show me your paintings?"

She looked at her TrapperKeeper. She already knew he was gonna flip over her card... but nodded anyway. "Deal."

Jon grinned, then flipped over the seven of hearts from the discard pile. "Ta da!"

"Whoa," she said. "How'd you do that?"

He deepened his voice. "I can't tell you little girl. It's magic." Still proud of himself, he gathered up the cards, set them on the nightstand, then twisted his tiny body until he reached her folder.

Hannah scrambled to his side. "They're not good. Really..."

Jon opened the folder as if it contained super-secret military documents. The strawberry was first. He stared at it for at least thirty seconds before moving to Jupiter. Another thirty seconds. Finally, he came to the worst painting of all: the unfinished portrait of her mother. "It's incredible," he said.

"You're just sayin' that 'cause you're supposed to."

"The others are neat, but this one is beautiful."

"Why?"

"Her face is symmetrical. I like that. See how the colors are all messy around the edges? Then the eyes and lips are real-looking. And the hair is awesome. I like how the red drips in front of her face like tears. I can never draw faces."

This wasn't the first time somebody told Hannah they liked her art. But until now, they had never said why they liked it. She didn't just believe Jon liked her painting, he made her like it too.

"Hannah!"

Oh shit.

"Somebody's lookin' for you," Jon exclaimed and swung the beam to the door.

"No!" she leapt forward, straddled him, wrangled the flashlight from his hands, and flicked it off. "Shhh..."

A shadow slithered beneath the door like a poisonous snake. Then another cry, loud and soft at the same time. "Hannah!"

"Under here!" she whispered and rolled beneath the covers.

Jon pulled the sheets over their heads as Hannah illuminated their faces with the flashlight. "If anybody comes in, tell them I'm not here, kay?"

"Okay!" he said.

"Shh! Only whisper, kay?"

"Okay," he said quieter.

"You got a computer?"

"Huh?"

"It's a machine with a screen and a keyboard—"

"I know what a computer is, but no, we don't."

She rolled her eyes. "You gotta pen?"

"Lots!" His hand left the safety of the sheets and returned with a pen with the hospital's name on it.

She grabbed his hand and scribbled her email address on his palm. "[email protected]."

"If you ever get a computer, you can send me messages, okay?"

"Cool!"

She flipped off the flashlight, then reached around the bed until she felt Jon's body. It was small but warm. She slipped her arm under his tee and held his shoulder.

Little by little, the sickness went away.

END OF CHAPTER ONE