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Another hit. My vision splits into two overlapping versions swimming in separate directions and refusing to resolve back into one.

Somewhere in the haze that follows, I swear I see her.

My Raven, kneeling in front of me the way Cullen had been a minute ago, her hand hovering an inch from my jaw like she’s afraid touching me will make all of this more real than it already is.

Stay with me, she says, or maybe I only imagine she says it, my brain filling silence with the one voice it refuses to let go of, no matter how many times reality has already proven it’s gone.

Some part of me, small and stubborn and still capable of shame even now, knows the difference between a hallucination and a haunting. The rest of me doesn’t care which one this is. If it’s the last thing my mind gives me before Cullen finishes the job, I’ll take it. I’ll take her, real or not, over one more minute of being alone.

I don’t know anymore where the hallucinations end, and the real world begins. I’m not sure if I want to know.

“He’s out again,” someone says. The voice is distant and muffled, beneath the ringing that’s taken up permanent residence in my skull.

“Good,” Cullen answers. “We’ve got a phone call to make.”

The last thing I hear before the dark swallows me whole is the low, satisfied sound of a man who already knows exactly how this ends.

And some small, exhausted part of me almost hopes he’s right.

Astra

The knowledge test is nothing like I expected. There’s no proctor. No waiting room lined with nervous teenagers and their parents. Just a bank of computers along the back wall of the PennDOT office and a clerk who barely glances up from her own screen long enough to point me toward an open terminal.

I sit down, type my confirmation number, and start clicking through questions about right-of-way and stopping distances and what a flashing yellow light actually means. Questions I would’ve known instinctively if I’d ever had a reason to learn them.

Growing up, there was always a car already running before I stepped outside, a driver who knew my school schedule better than I did most weeks, and a very firm family opinion that nobody of our social status should be caught fighting for a parking spot on the Upper East Side. So no, I never learned the small daily competencies most people my age mastered years before I did.

Now there’s no driver. No town car. No family decided where I need to be and when. There's just a screen full of multiple-choice questions standing between me and something that feels like a step toward real adulthood.

I pass with a few questions to spare. The clerk slides a temporary printout across the counter. My hands aren’t quite steady as I pick it up.

A learner’s permit. Not a license—yet. But it’s the first thing I’ve ever earned entirely on my own. That makes it worth more than any diploma my parents ever paid for.

I call a rideshare and ask the driver to take me straight to the diner instead of back to the motel. I can’t wait to tell Marge that I passed.

She’s behind the counter when I walk in. The second she sees my face, she sets down the rag she’s holding. “Well?”

I hold up the printout that’s slightly damp from my own nervous palms. “I passed.”

“She passed, Eddie,” she calls into the kitchen as she comes around the counter faster than I’ve ever seen her move. Before I can say anything else, she’s got both arms around me. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”

“It’s just a permit, Marge. I still can’t legally drive myself anywhere.”

“I don’t care. The first step’s the hardest one, and you already took it.” She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, studying my face. “And you did that all on your own, with nobody holding your hand. That matters.”

Something about the way she says it, fierce and certain, makes my throat go tight. “Thank you,” I manage.

It’s only then that I notice Jon sitting in a nearby booth, grinning like the whole exchange just made his afternoon. Across from him sits a man I haven’t met. He has the same easy quiet about him that Jon does, with broad shoulders and a leather cut with a patch I’ve started to recognize from half the regulars who wander through here.

“Look at you,” Jon says, nodding at the printout in my hand. “Knew you’d pass.”

“Now I actually have to learn how to drive and pass the road test before I can bring my scooter home.”

“She’ll keep at the garage till you’re street legal. There’s no rush.”

“Do either of you know anyone around here who gives driving lessons?”

Jon nods toward the man across from him. “My son Knox is the most patient driver I know. Taught half the clubhouse when they were green. He’d probably do it if you asked nicely.”