“Ready or not, here I come!” Francesca beelined for Connie. She scrambled from the log but was overtaken by her cousin, who slapped her on the back. Connie howled.
“You’re it!” Francesca said.
Connie turned and ran toward Mira. Mira blinked, for the Connie gunning for her looked younger, hair streaming, cheeks pink. And it was that gangly Connie run, the opposite of self-conscious, the way she’d moved in the years before she noticed boys. Frozen, Mira smiled despite herself.
Connie was upon her.
“You’re it,” Connie cried, dancing a victory jig. “Now you have to play! The party pooper has to play!”
Mira thought she saw Francesca rolled in a ball, making herself even smaller behind her scraggly pine. As Mira ran toward the tree, Francesca stepped in her path. Mira bounced off her chest and fell backward. Connie laughed, and her laughter seem to come at Mira from every direction.
“You took me out!” Mira sputtered.
“Now I’m it!” Francesca slit her eyes and scanned the field. Mira turned cross: Francesca had slammed her hard, and the ground was cold. She rose slowly, rubbing her behind. Connie called, “Me next! Me next!” from her scrubby hiding place. Francesca’s shoulders pitched forward, and she ran toward her, elbows pumping fiercely. Connie screeched in delight. She took off, heading east in a wide arc around the quarry mouth. Francesca followed, but Connie had at least a yard lead, and she was strong, stronger than she ever seemed, Mira thought as she joined the chase. Again and again, Francesca lunged, but Connie dodged her grasp. The girls shrieked in pleasure with each near miss; even Mira began to shout, rooting for Connie to get away. Connie squealed, reveling in moving. As her lead grew she became brave, stopping and switching direction, taunting Francesca from behind spindly oaks, her pursuer struggling, shreds of leaves like torn butcher paper in her hair. She tracked Connie closer to the crest, to the drop-off into the quarry proper, with its ledges and water. Ahead, the Boston skyline blinked, festive. Mira knew Powder Neck glowed, too, behind and below them, a steady blue-white.
Mira stopped. Francesca was forcing Connie to the edge.
Mira cupped her hands around her mouth to scream “Stop!” and Connie did, turning to face them, her head loose on its stem, bobbing slightly. Francesca stopped short a few feet from Connie. Mira approached, slowly, squinting. As she came closer, she saw Connie’s eyes were unfocused, her hand waving around her throat.
“Connie?” Mira said.
Connie fumbled with her jacket zipper. Mira stepped forward and yanked it. When it caught, Mira yanked harder, rocking Connie like a rag doll. Finally the zipper split and Mira threw the coat open. Pink welts traveled down Connie’s throat and joined, forming larger ones that disappeared into her low-cut shirt.
“What are those?” Mira cried.
Connie splayed her hand against the lacy pattern, as if someone had said something surprising. Francesca pushed Mira aside for a better view. She peered at Connie’s chest.
“Hives.”
Connie’s breath got loud and ragged. Her fingers closed around her throat. Miles away, on Powder Neck, an ambulance siren wailed, jolting Mira.
“We need help,” she said. “This is bad. We need to call someone right now.”
Connie staggered and swayed, dropped to her knees and retched. The sound carried. Mira crouched beside her and wiped Connie’s mouth with her sleeve. She rubbed Connie’s back, murmuring, “You’re okay, you’re okay.”
Francesca’s eyes flitted over Connie.
Mira looked up at Francesca. “I’m using the pen.”
Connie looked up weakly. “Don’t,” she whispered.
Francesca’s eyes flashed at Mira. “You heard her.”
Mira felt Connie stiffen under her arm. Mira stood and looked around wildly. She reached around to her back pocket and felt for the bulge of the pen. As she did, Francesca walked swiftly toward Mira and knocked her to the ground. Mira stumbled a few feet away. She blinked hard at the dusk and scrambled to her feet. Francesca had rolled Connie onto her back and now kneeled beside her, her hands on top of one another upon Connie’s chest, about to perform CPR.
Mira felt relief sweep over her. Francesca was going to do the right thing, like she always did, big sister sweeping in and taking control. How could she have doubted?
Francesca closed her eyes and tipped her chin to the sky, murmuring, “Jesus, you commanded your apostles to heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils: freely I have received, freely I give.”
Mira gasped.
Connie’s body twitched from its core.
“Quickly!” said Mira.
“Give me your grace, oh God, to perform a miracle, to give breath to this girl where there is none…”
Mira cried. “Is it happening? It needs to happen, there’s no time!”
Francesca threw her head back. “Oh Lord, you put saints on Earth after the apostles to follow Jesus’s command to heal the sick and raise the dead. Let me be your vehicle, dear God…”
Mira drew the pen from her back pocket and held it in front of her nose. “I can’t see. What do I do with it?” The pen slipped from Mira’s spastic hands, flying into the air and landing soundlessly in the dark. “I lost it!”
Francesca’s head snapped up. “Pray! Pray now with me!”
Mira crawled on her hands and knees, fumbling blindly on the ground. Loose rock and mica shards sliced the soft undersides of her hands. “I can’t find it!” Tears streamed into her mouth and nose. “I can’t find it!”
Francesca dropped her head. The ledge was filled with chanting, verses of the Lord’s Prayer, broken with sobs.
“Mira!” Francesca’s voice was shrill. “Pray with me!”
Mira crawled onto the altar rock. It seemed impossible that the EpiPen could have bounced that far, and as she thought this, another thought, her father’s words, intruded: No good comes from running around alone and unchaperoned. She pushed it from her mind and ran her hand in front of her in a semicircle. Her fingertips grazed plastic. She snatched up the cigar-shaped shadow and held it up to the lights of Boston. She spotted a soft indent below the cap and twisted the top. The cap fell to the ground with a soft tick. Clambering to her feet, she turned, and froze.
In the half-light, Mira thought she might be gazing at a medieval religious painting. Francesca, serene and lovely, now kneeled at Connie’s head, her hands long underneath, pale slices cupping Connie’s darkened cheeks.
Alone on the ledge, Mira shivered deeply. On the ground, Connie’s twitches had stilled, and she appeared to be sleeping. Francesca’s voice floated past Mira, past the tip of the altar rock, out and over the chasm. Mira knew the quarry did queer things with sound, warped and threw it. But never this. Her voice magnified and multiplied, and soon it sounded like a hundred girls praying from every ledge. Mira felt the voices bounce back and fill her, and the reverberation entered her body and warmed it. If the prayers were a color, they’d be white, Mira thought, a pearly white light. Mira imagined the light pouring into Connie, and that seemed good.