It’s also the first time I’m not shaking and freezing. I’m still cold, and I shiver, but I’m not feeling like I was doused in ice water. Maybe accepting the visions was enough to decrease the side effects—or maybe it just gets easier with practice.

Nate—the real, alive Nate—is still kneeling in front of me, staring at my face, and I don’t try to hide the fact that I’m crying again. The brutality of Nate’s death was worse this time.

“He’s angry at you,” I whisper.

In a low voice, I tell him the entirety of what I saw. He remains silent as I talk, not interrupting even as my voice breaks. It’s not until I reach the part about him remembering our conversations during the attack that I notice that he’s caught my hand in his and is holding on to me tightly. I look at our entwined fingers, and he follows my gaze with his own.

“Why not now? I’m touching you,” Nate asks. “Why don’t you see my death again?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. Maybe if nothing changes I don’t see it.” I pause, frustration filling me. “I didn’t get a rule book or anything. Searching online hasn’t revealed any answers, and . . . I don’t know. It’s all guesses right now.”

He nods, and I can see by the way his face is scrunched up that he’s processing everything. After a few moments, he asks, “So let’s test it. If I make a promise, if I decide to change something else, will it change?”

Nate sounds excited as he talks, as if seeing his death repeatedly is good somehow. He starts to pull his hand away, but I clutch it tightly.

“I need a minute,” I admit. It hurts to be caught in someone’s death. I fill him in on the cold and the shaking, and he hugs me. Then, he nods and sits back on his heels so he’s farther away from me.

“He’s from here. Maybe not Jessup, but from North Carolina. Maybe South Carolina. He doesn’t sound like Grace or anyone from outside the South.” I’m still trying to piece together details, doing what people with prosopagnosia do in the real world. It helped me focus when I was inside Nate’s death this time, and it’s helping me to think about something other than the horror of being beaten to death. “His voice is male, but I couldn’t see his skin. Clothes are normal. Hair was brown, I think.”

“Were there any words on the hoodie?” Nate asks. His arm is stretched out so our hands are still clasped. He watches me so intently that I want to run.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Did it feel like I knew him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I would know that. Maybe?” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

After a moment, Nate leans forward and kisses my cheek. It’s sudden and ridiculously exciting—and weird. I could almost believe it didn’t happen because he’s gone as soon as it happens, and I lift my hand to touch my face as if there will be proof on my skin.

He’s still holding my hand and watching me when he says, “I believe you. I just thought you should know.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry that it happened.”

“It?” I repeat.

There are so many things that could be “it” that I’m not sure what else to say. The kiss? The accident? The vision?

“I’m sorry that you have these visions, but you’re going to save my life.” He squeezes my hand this time. “I’ll thank you later too, but thank you.”

I swallow and look away. I don’t want him to thank me. I want him to like me . . . and believe in me. At least, I have the second part, and that’s more important. I smile. “Why do you believe me?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Instinct? Trust? I just do.”

“Thank you.” I release his hand reluctantly. I would rather keep hold of it, but it feels more intimate than is safe. I shake my head at how awkward this whole crushing on him is, and in a moment more impulsive than my confession of visions, I say, “I like you. I know it’s not . . . a good idea, but I do. So after today you can’t kiss me or hold me while I sleep if we’re going to make it as friends. It confuses thi—”

His lips are suddenly on mine, and his hand rests gently along my cheek. It’s not the sort of passionate kiss that leads to losing sense or clothing, but this is Nate. Nate is kissing me, and I can’t stop myself from leaning in closer. I don’t want to stop myself. He’s kneeling against the edge of the sofa, and I’m tilting forward to reach him. As soon as I curl my hand around the back of his neck, his kiss grows less tentative.

I don’t ever want to let him go, but only a few moments later, he pulls away.

His hand still rests carefully on my cheek, and his whispered words are breathy against my lips as he says, “It might not be a good idea, but I’ve wanted to kiss you for years. If today’s the only chance, I’ll take it.”

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come. He presses his lips to mine for a split second, and then he’s pulling back. With the sort of lithe grace that makes him beautiful to watch, he seems to go from kneeling to standing in one fluid movement.

“I’m going to see what’s in the fridge for lunch. Your mom said there were a few options, and you didn’t eat break—”

“Wait!”

He shakes his head. “No. Give me a few minutes, okay? You told me about my death, and then”—he motions between us—“that’s not my area, Eva. I don’t do relationships or dating. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you. It just means I care about you enough to keep my hands to myself.”