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Someone screams.

A vendor display collapses into the path, wood framing and cider bottles spilling across gravel. People rush toward it, and the crowd shifts instantly.

Mercy grabs my arm.

“No.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“I do that sometimes.”

“Stop.”

Petal mutters, “Relatable.”

Another crash sounds outside, followed by a woman screaming for help.

Mercy looks through the window.

I see the calculation happen.

Stay with me.

Help whoever is outside.

She chooses me.

“Lark, call emergency services if somebody's hurt.”

Lark nods.

My phone buzzes.

I look down.

Good girl.

My stomach turns.

Then:

Behind the coffin booth.

I lock the screen.

No.

Absolutely not.

I am not that stupid.

Then the intercom radio on Mercy's desk crackles.

Static.

A voice.