I take a bath. I scrub every part of my body, shave my legs, work the dirt from under my fingernails, until finally, at long last, I feel clean. Then I sit at my desk in my bathrobe and tackle the arduous task of combing the tangles out of my hair. I smooth moisturizer over my face, put some lip balm on. In my closet I stand for a long while staring at a yellow sundress my mom once gave me for my birthday, which I wore the night Tucker first took me to Bubba's, which was, in a backward way, our first date. I push it to the side and put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. After strapping on some white sandals, I go downstairs.

My black hoodie, the one I was wearing all through this whole ordeal, is laid carefully across the back of the couch. I pick it up. It smells like lake water and blood. I walk to the laundry room to toss it in there, but first I check the pockets.

Inside the left pocket is a silver charm bracelet. I hold it in my palm, examining each charm. A horse, for when they took off across the countryside. A fish, for when they met. A heart. And now a new charm.

A tiny silver sparrow.

I put it on. It tinkles against the bones of my wrist as I walk down the hallway to Mom's old room. My heart starts to beat fast, my breath quickens, but I don't hesitate. I need to see him. I open the door.

The bed's empty, the sheets pulled up in a messy way, like someone tried to straighten the covers in a hurry. No one's here. I frown.

Maybe I took too long to come find him. Maybe he left.

I smell something burning.

I find Tucker in the kitchen, attempting and spectacularly failing to make scrambled eggs. He pushes at the blackened mess with a spatula, tries to flip it, burns himself, fights back a cuss word, and starts shaking his hand like he can get the pain off it. I laugh, and he whirls around, startled. His blue eyes widen.

"Clara!" he says.

My heart sinks looking at him. How will I tell him? I walk up to him and take the spatula out of his hand.

"I thought you' be hungry," he says.

"Not for that." I smile and grab a dish towel, pick up the frying pan, march it over to the trash can, and scrape the eggs into it. Then I go to the sink and rinse it out. "Let me," I say.

He nods and pulls himself up onto one of the kitchen stools. He's not wearing a shirt, just a pair of my brother's old pajama pants. Even so he looks like Sunday morning, I think the expression goes. I try not to flat-out stare as I go to the refrigerator and get out a carton of eggs, crack them into a bowl, add milk, and whisk it all together.

"How are you?" he asks. "Jeffery told me you were sleeping."

"You saw Jeffery?"

"Yeah, he was here for a while. He seemed kind of distracted. He tried to give me an envelope filled with money."

"Uh, sorry?" I offer.

"You California yuppies think you can buy anything," Tucker jokes.

And he is joking. He's getting pretty fond of California yuppies.

"I'm good," I say with a cough, to answer his original question. "How are you?"

"Never felt better," he says.

I stop whisking and look over at him. He doesn't seem changed, I think. He doesn't look like any prophet I've ever heard of.

"What?" he asks. "Do I have egg on my face?"

"I'm not really hungry," I say, pushing aside the eggs. "I need to talk to you."

He swallows. "Please don't let this be the part where you tell me what's best for me again."

I gulp. "Why don't you put on some clothes?"

"That's a great idea," he says. "But they seem to be missing. I guess they got thrashed beyond repair earlier. Maybe you could take me home real quick."

I shake my head. "After I speak to you. Here." I throw him a blanket which he wraps around himself, and sit across from him.

"You saved me," he says with wonder and happiness in his voice.

This is going to hurt him, but I have to get it out. Even though it isn't true, I have to say it.

"But that doesn't mean anything."

He looks at me strangely. "What...?" I don't let him continue.

"Tucker, hear me out. I love you, and I always will. You are my home." He's smiling, but nervously. I sigh. "I will never forget that summer, and all our time together, but there can't be anymore."

"Stop with the purpose stuff!"

"It's not that..."

"So it's Prescott? You've chosen him." His stare pierce me, going straight into my soul.

"Tuck-" I'm crying. "You are my home, my love. But he is my strength, my...glory. I can't move on without him."

"But you can without me." He's hurt, I can see it in his eyes.

"Tuck! You know that's not true. I can never stop thinking about you." I bite my lip and hug him. "God did this for a reason. I love you, but we have to move on. He has something better planned for you." I'm convincing myself, but not him.

He gets it though. He knows I love him, and that will keep him going. But he also knows that he's lost.

I answer the question he doesn't ask. "This isn't good-bye. We'll always be friends. The closest kind of friends."

"So we're back to friends, Carrots," he says, strong, but disappointed. "Thanks for saving my life. Can I go get clothes now?"

"Sure." I walk over to him and take his hand, draw him off the stool. He looks at me uncertainly.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course."

I delight in his quick intake of breath as I reach up and cover his eyes with both of my hands. I call the glory, a warm, pulsing circle of light around us. I close my eyes and concentrate on sending us to the front of the Lazy Dog, his house. I'm avoiding the barn, on purpose.

"Okay, you can look," I say, and take my hands away, and the light slowly fades around us, and he gasps.

"How did you do that?"

I shrug. "I click my heels three times and say, 'There's no place like home.'"

"Uh-huh. Why don't I feel sick from the glory?"

"Um...I'll tell you about it later. Call me."

He nods, curious, and then waves.

"Bye, Carrots," he says, and we both try to keep the tears from flowing.