“What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. Henderson asks icily. She stands at the top of the stairs, flour from the bakery still dusting her clothes.
I haven’t seen her since the night of the fire, and she doesn’t even ask how I am. She doesn’t soften. Mrs. H, who was almost as close to me as my own mother. She is a stranger now. And I’m terrified.
The passport and letters burn in my pocket.
“Corey. I asked you what you’re doing here.” Mrs. H’s voice is flat.
“I came to see…” My voice wavers and those four words leave me out of breath. I try again. “The door was open. I came to see how you were—how you were doing.”
“And when you didn’t find me downstairs, you decided to wander around our house?”
I used to be at home here. I keep that to myself. I open and close my mouth, then aim for a half truth.
“My flight leaves tomorrow, and I needed my passport. I’d given it to Mr. H for safekeeping, so I came to ask for it. When I came in, I thought I heard a noise when I called, so I came up. I just… I wanted…” I’m rambling and I only stop when I run out of breath again. My cheeks feel red hot, so it must be obvious that I’m lying. Kyra used to tell me that I got too distracted by the details, and she was exasperated when I wanted to include them all.
“Your passport.”
I wet my lips and nod.
Mrs. H glances from me to the bedroom and the cabinet that holds the safe. I can see her adding up the details. She shakes her head. “Run then. My daughter wouldn’t have wanted you to stay here.”
I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and my fingers curl around my passport. “I want to go home, Mrs. H.”
“We take care of our own here, Corey. You wanted to lay bare our stories and share our secrets.” Mrs. H tilts her head to the side, regarding me. “Then you have to be willing to pay the price for it.”
I flinch. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Leave while you still can. You’re not welcome in my home anymore. You’re not welcome in Lost anymore.”
And with that, she steps aside to make room for me to pass her on the stairs. There is no warmth in her face. There’s nothing left of the kindness she’d showed countless times, baking muffins for Kyra and me, telling stories about Kyra’s grandfather and his escapades and travels, making tea and keeping me company on the days when Mom was at work and Kyra was ill.
She crosses her arms. “Leave, Corey. Now.”
I go.
The Art of Dying
EXT. LOST CREEK—MAIN STREET—DUSK
Corey watches as Mr. Sarin and Sheriff Flynn walk along Main Street to the edge of town. They’re deep in conversation. She can see their mouths move, but she can’t hear them. It seems like they’re always walking the same route whenever she sees them.
When Corey turns to go back to the spa, she is confronted by a group of Lost’s students, fishermen, townspeople. A mob. Piper leads the crowd.
Piper
Do you think you’re so much better than us? You come here all high and mighty, tell us how we all misunderstood Kyra. Do you really think you understood her better than we did?
Corey steps back and hugs her arms around her chest.
Piper
We cared for Kyra. We fed her. We clothed her. We listened to her. When was the last time you listened to her, really listened? We never asked her to change. We never tried to fix her. We accepted her.
Corey (shaking her head): Piper, you didn’t acknowledge her at all after her diagnosis. And when you did, it was only because she could be useful to you. You let her die. Don’t give me that nonsense about accepting her. You didn’t.
Piper steps forward.
Piper
We let her die? Do you even know what you’re talking about? She painted her own death. That was what she wanted. Do you know how much her visions meant to us? She told the stories that gave meaning to our lives.
Corey
She painted her own death, and you didn’t think that was a cry for help? A sign that she was suicidal? Kyra was ill, Piper.
Piper (raising her voice in anger): And she decided that it was her time.
Piper struggles to get her emotions under control.
Piper
Yes, she was ill, and that was all the more reason to let her go. You claim to have been her friend. Would you want her to be unhappy?
Corey (stepping back at Piper’s words): Of course I didn’t want her to be unhappy, but I didn’t want her dead. She had a right to live. To fight. To feel, happiness and heartbreak. It. Wasn’t. Her. Time.
Corey balls her fists and flinches at the pain radiating from her palm. She’s grown deadly pale. Her fingers itch to hit something, but she restrains herself.
Corey
How dare you. How dare you deny Kyra a chance to live?
(whispering)
How dare we?
Piper
You scorn her when you scorn us. Go home, Corey. Forget. It’s best for us all.
Piper and the crowd take a step forward together. They repeat the same words Piper has spoken, in a violent, angry mutter.
Crowd
Go home. Forget.
Go home. Forget.
They all step forward, moving as one, their eyes trained on Corey. Slowly, they begin to spread out.
Crowd
Go home. Forget.
It’s best for us all.
They start to circle and close in.
Corey bolts.
Letter from Kyra to Corey
unsent
Some days, I’m alone in this spa. Some days, there’s an endless stream of people. Some days, I have friends. Sam smuggles me articles about current events from the school library, but that’s all he dares to do. Aaron comes to check up on me every evening. He sends my letters. At least, I think he does. I have no way to know for sure. Maybe you never got any of them…
I tried to go for a run in the woods last night, but Dad brought me back here. He says he wants to keep me safe. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him that I don’t feel safe here. How could I? They’re burning me up with all of the painting. I want to see Rowanne. I want to be able to sleep.
I want people to care about me, not in spite of my illness and not because of it. Because of me, Cor. Just because of me.
The Mist, the Woods, the Darkness
My pulse races. My heart pounds. I push my hands against my temples and bolt.
Get away. Get out. Run, Corey.
I head into the woods.
We’ve lived through the longest night, but the days are still darkened by shadows, mournful and deep. The forest is quiet, all sounds dampened by the snow, even the snap of branches I push out of my way and the crunch of snow beneath my feet. Everything is softer here.
I won’t hear anyone following me.
I scramble toward the place where the woods should clear around the hot springs—only to be met with a dead end. I blink. Turn. More trees.
My heart skips, and I have to force myself to keep breathing.
I try to retrace my steps, but the path behind me has disappeared under a new layer of snow. The light trickles away and night creeps in. Where am I? I’ve never seen this part of the woods before. It’s as if the trees have circled me. I can’t move. I’m lost. I’m lost.
I’ll never get out.
The absence of direct sunlight makes the air colder, and when I breathe in, I taste snow. The air is a fine mist.
I run. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m doing. I have to get out. I can hardly see with the pines above me and the clouds covering the moon. The cold air scorches my lungs, and I double over and clutch my stomach.
I sprint again. I stumble and trip, hitting the snow hard. Pain shoots through my shin, while the cold seeps through my pants and crawls up my spine.
I could die like this. Running into the woods, never to be seen again.
I scramble to my feet, despite my uneven footing. Sweat gathers at the back of my neck and turns to ice. I keep walking because I have to keep moving, I have to trust my instincts. If I stop, I will freeze. But I slow down my pace.
Step by step, I backtrack. I push my nails into the palm of my unharmed hand and try to clear my mind. Focus. I follow my own footprints. I keep an eye out for broken branches where I pushed through the foliage. I have to get back to the path—and move onward from there.