It's another two days before I step outside my house. If it weren't for what Elton and Mom arranged for me to do in secret, I'm not sure I would have made it past the front door. Knowing I'm going to see fans who were at The Domino is what kept me going as I transformed into Cayden Indigo this morning, trading my T-shirt, shorts, and ponytail for a sleeveless jumpsuit, block-heeled sandals, and a blue wig. This, along with sparkly eyeshadow, winged eyeliner, false eyelashes, and bright lip gloss, do a decent job of disguising who I really am right now. I may be playing the part of my pop star alter ego, but the true me is a shell-shocked teenager who has been holed up in her bedroom, not sleeping much.

The teens and kids I'm visiting this afternoon are patients at Children's Hospital. Each of them were injured in either the blast or the stampede to leave my concert, and seeing them is more important to me than anything has ever been. Still, I'm terrified. I don't fear something bad will happen once I'm past my driveway gates, and I'm not afraid to find out how seriously some of the kids were hurt. But after I asked to visit the hospital and to bring stuffed animal lions as gifts to remind each wounded fan that they're strong and fierce, doubts crept into my mind.

Being at my show landed my fans at the hospital. What if none of them want to see me, or what if I remind them of what happened and trigger flashbacks? What if their parents freak out and ban me from being there once I arrive? So much could go wrong.

I wish I'd asked Sawyer and Carter to come along for support. I would have said the same for Bowie not that long ago, although this isn't true now. I haven't heard from him since he stalked out of my house two days ago, and I also haven't reached out. He'd once planned to go with me to the show I should have performed in San Diego last night. It was supposed to be my last solo concert before our tour together. Bowie either heard it was canceled, forgot he was supposed to go, or didn't care.

Maybe his silence means we're over. Maybe it doesn't. Either way, we'll have to hash it out before the tour. If it's the end of him and me, we'll have to figure out how to make things work without all kinds of tension between us, or it's going to be a grueling summer on the road. Not that I even know how I'll make it to that point. It's difficult enough putting one foot in front of the other to get from the front porch of my house to Mom's Range Rover.

"Elton said he'll meet us there," Mom tells me as I slide into the passenger seat. "He's bringing the stuffed animals."

"Okay, great." That's all I say, and it's typical of me these last couple of days. My brain has been working overtime, but putting my thoughts and feelings into words has been close to impossible.

Mom starts the engine, then pauses. Her weary expression tells me she has something on her mind.

"Out with it," I say. "What do you want tell me?"

"I checked the gate camera before I came outside," she admits. "There are still a few paps around, probably waiting for a glimpse of you."

I'm not overjoyed by this news, but I'm also not surprised. The media has only heard from me through my publicist, and there hasn't been a single sighting of me in public since I was photographed crying on Sawyer's shoulder. The tabloids are probably hungry for photos, video clips, and my answers to their questions about Dallas and what happened at my show.

"Do you think they'll follow us if they see me?"

"They might."

"I'll get in the back." I unbuckle my seat belt and get out of the SUV.

As long as none of the paparazzi Mom saw have been climbing trees or ladders to peer over our fences and gate, they shouldn't be able to see me in the driveway. I open the rear passenger-side door and hop into the back of the vehicle, where I lie flat across the seats and cover myself with a blanket we keep in here for exactly this reason. The blanket and the heavily tinted windows have helped me dodge the paps before, and with any luck, these will do the trick again now. Today's hospital visit is private and off-limits to the media.

Once I'm settled in, Mom puts the Range Rover into motion. We ease down the driveway and slow to a stop when we reach the gate. I wait for the paparazzi to hurl questions at Mom. They don't disappoint.

"Julia! Where's Cayden?" a male voice booms.

"Can you tell us how Cayden is doing?" another inquires.

"Have Cayden and Bowie broken up?"

"How is Cayden handling the news of Bowie possibly cheating on her with Portia Garnet?"

"Does the canceled show in San Diego last night mean Cayden will also drop out of her tour with Bowie?"

The questions keep coming as Mom turns out of our driveway and onto the street. Once the voices fade into the distance, I silently count backwards from twenty and then ask if it's safe to sit up.

"There's no one following us that I can see," Mom replies. "I think we're in the clear."

I push the blanket away and sit up. Mom glances at me in the rearview mirror as I put my seatbelt on, then she looks forward again at the road.

"The questions about you and Bowie—do you know what those were about?"

I knew that was coming.

"Sort of." I pick at a piece of fluff the blanket left on my jumpsuit.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I lean my head against the leather seat and squeeze my eyes shut. "Not yet."

The rest of the drive passes without much conversation. Mom avoids turning the radio on and instead connects her phone to play music for the entire ride. I won't hear news clips or DJs discussing the latest rumors about why Dallas brought a bomb to my show this way. I appreciate her effort to keep me in a vacuum, but she doesn't know I hooked up my headphones to my bedroom TV last night and flipped between news stations, or that I've been scanning social media when we aren't in the same room. I'm aware of the latest rumors and gossip, and I know about the people who think I'm somehow to blame.

Security escorts are waiting for us at the hospital entrance when we arrive. Mom or Elton must have arranged for them. Before this week, I would have argued it was unnecessary and over the top to have security here. But before this week, I also couldn't have fathomed an existence where a former classmate would set off a bomb at one of my concerts.

"Ready?" Mom asks. "Elton is already here and waiting for us upstairs."

"I'm ready," I answer, even though I'm still nervous someone will ask me to leave. With security walking ahead of me and behind me, I head inside the doors.

None of the nurses on the floor we start with seem taken aback to see me or the security escorts. I spot Elton standing by the nursing station and hurry over to him. I haven't seen him since the night of my show, even though we've texted a bunch. He's told me he's doing fine, but the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his skin reveal he's sleeping about as well as I am.

"Thanks for being here." I give him a quick hug.

"There's nowhere else I'd want to be." He holds out the bag of stuffed animal lions. I take one out for Mira, the fourteen-year-old girl who won the meet and greet that didn't take place.

"Do you know which room Mira is in?"

"I'll take you there." Elton and I start walking. The security guys are close behind.

"Is there any chance they can wait out here at the nursing station?" I know why I have security escorts, but I would prefer they remain in the hallway, out of sight from anyone I'm visiting.

"I'll tell them to hang back." Elton nods at a door to our right. "Mira is in there. Go on ahead, and I'll be out here."

He backtracks to talk to the security guys, and I take another step toward the door. I see Mira before she sees me. She's propped up in her hospital bed, sitting with pillows tucked behind her back and looking at a tablet. There's an IV in her arm and bandages on her right arm and leg. These must be the places she had shrapnel removed from.

I rap lightly on the door frame. "Hi, Mira. Can I come in?"

She lowers the tablet to her lap and looks up at the door. It takes only a second for her walnut-brown eyes to become like saucers. A squeal escapes her, and she claps her left hand over her mouth. Her dark braids bounce around her shoulders as she bobs her head up and down, and the hand covering her mouth begins to tremble. I hope it's from excitement and not because seeing me is making her relive what happened to land her here. I enter the room and walk up to her bed.

Mira removes her hand from her mouth and lets it drop back to her side. "Are you really Cayden Indigo?"

"I promise on everything it's me. Are you really Mira Winshaw?"

"I can't believe you know who I am." A flush creeps into her cheeks. When a dimple appears in her chin and she grins, my worry over how she feels about me being here slips away and is replaced by relief.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you," I tell her. "I hope I didn't interrupt what you were doing."

She glances at her forgotten tablet. "I was writing something. A story."

"Do you like to write?"

Her face lights up even more. "Mmm-hmm. Probably as much as you like to sing. I want to be a writer when I'm older."

"It sounds like you already are a writer," I say. "I'd love to read what you're writing."

"Maybe after I edit it." She makes a face, and I can't help but laugh.

"I feel that way sometimes when I'm working on a new song," I confess to her.

At ease now, I pull the visitor's chair close to Mira's bed and sit down. I ask her what else she likes doing, and she tells me about her soccer team and how she can't wait to start high school in the fall.

"Do you go to school?" she asks.

"I used to, right here in L.A., but I'm tutored now since I tour so much. I'll get my GED this year."

"You're lucky. Going to school every day is boring. It must be fun to travel and sing."

"It is most of the time," I agree. Or it was. I'm trying not to think about it, since the idea of being on buses and planes again in less than a month, living in hotel rooms, and being on stage almost every night is more than I can handle at the moment.

"Cayden?" Mira's voice sounds tentative now.

"Yeah?"

"You canceled your show in San Diego last night. Did you do that because of what happened?"

She looks at me in earnest. I'm normally careful about what I say to people I don't know well in case my words are repeated to the media or online, but it feels safe to confide in her.

"I did. It's been a rough couple of days, and I couldn't get on stage last night. I just need some time."

I try to smile. Mira's gaze locks with mine.

"Please don't stop singing because of this," she says. "Your music is everything to me, and to so many other people. I'm really glad you're okay."

"I'm really glad you're okay, too—or that you're going to be, I mean. You'll be back on the soccer field in no time."

Hot tears sting at my eyes and threaten to spill over. I command all the strength and willpower I have to fight them back.

I manage to keep my composure during the rest of my visit with Mira, and with the other fans I meet that afternoon. I even make it through the drive home without letting on to Mom that there's a dam of emotion inside me, ready to burst. We talk about the afternoon, who I met, and some of the conversations I had. I even bring up how I'd like to start a fund to help with the hospital bills and funerals for those who were killed without collapsing into a sobbing mess.

But when I'm finally alone again in my bedroom, with no one to see or hear me, I can't hold it back any more. I curl up in a ball on my bed and pull the duvet over my head. Then I let myself break.