I sit and stare at Poppy as she plays with the puppies, smiling, happy, completely healthy with no indication she had been dead only a short time ago. The others have come to see her, though only Beckett knows the truth. Socrates suspects something has happened, eyeing me carefully as he smiles at the girl's antics. But he says nothing, shows no concern, so I know, whatever I've done to her, he won't use it against me.
I've healed her. There is no other explanation. Poppy was dead, her last breath exhaled. The tingle I felt when I touched her, it was the same tingle when I made the two boys Sick. I look down at my hands, find them shaking, bury one in the soft golden fur of the dog lying quietly beside me while I clench the other into a fist to still its quiver.
Memory surfaces, of the d
