Helen didn't think that there could be anything worse than that night, that terrible night, the night with the flames that leapt high.

She couldn't think of a sight worse than the blood that splattered over their kitchen, and never did she think she'd hear a noise like that terrible strangled scream exit her own mouth again. She never thought she'd feel more helpless than she did as they watched their father die.

But how could there be anything be worse than watching her sister, her cheeky, baby sister, climb that stage? How could there be anything more heartbreaking than the desperate look in her eyes as she searched the crowd, mentally pleading for a volunteer?

Helen wanted to raise her hand. She wanted to scream, and shout, and sob, and she wanted to take her sister's place. But she was too old by a year. Just one year, one meaningless year.

She had always wanted to turn the clock back.

But never more than now.