ã€ŠDevil&#x27;s Lakeã€‹


 1 - Death Beckons

    DEVIL''S LAKE

    PART I

    epigraph

    For those who dare to live when hope seems far away.

    <hr>

    Demon (n.)

    c. 1200, from Latin daemon "spirit," from Greek daimon "deity, divine power; lesser god; guiding spirit, tutelary deity" (sometimes including souls of the dead); "one''s genius, lot, or fortune;" from PIE *dai-mon- "divider, provider" (of fortunes or destinies), from root *da- "to divide."

    Used (with daimonion) in Christian Greek translations and Vulgate for "god of the heathen" and "unclean spirit."

    - etymonline.com

    <hr>

    Today, I might do it . . . or maybe I won''t. The day is almost too beautiful for dying. It''s pleasantly warm, and a gentle breeze glides over the lake, teasing at my hair.

    I''m supposed to be home, greeting my grandparents, thanking them for coming. I''m supposed to feel proud. That''s what Aunt Lindsay told me when I suggested not buying the cap and gown.

    "Why wouldn''t you attend your high school graduation?" she said back in April. "Alison, really. Just because you''re not my own daughter doesn''t mean I won''t pay for things. I want to see you walk. I''m sure you''re cousins do too."

    I didn''t protest. I let her buy what she wanted, tried to put on a smile, pretend for her I was happy. She seems the only person oblivious to just how broken I am. Maybe it''s intentional. After all, her brother did try to kill me, and she''s in denial about that.

    But here I am, sitting in the grass behind the beach, my shoulders cocooned under my beach towel, my eyes fixated on the lake my dad nearly drowned me in.

    Seven years . . . almost eight. That''s how long I should have already been in the ground. That''s how long my parents have been there.

    I didn''t tell Aunt Lindsay where I was going¡ªnot really. She saw me heading out, asked me what I was doing.

    "Uh . . . car needs gas," I said.

    "I just filled it for you yesterday."

    "Your car," I said, quickly grabbing the other set of keys. "Thought I''d make it up to you."

    She grinned. She always gives that grin when she thinks I''m turning over some new leaf in social behavior.

    "Okay, but be back soon," she said. "I''ve still got¡ª"

    But I didn''t stay to hear her finish. I was out the door, on the road, phone off. I don''t even know why I brought it.

    Devil''s Lake. She''d probably have some variation of her own panic attack if she knew I was here. She hates this place, is superstitious about this place. Some dark energy lurking around, attaching itself to people, offering some convenient explanation for what her brother did.

    The lake is little more than a dark oval basin between two towering wooded bluffs. Cascading down the sides of the bluffs are large, gray boulders. They look little more than tumbling stones down the side of a cliff, but in truth, most are larger than a person.

    Everything about this state park makes me feel small like we''ve all happened upon Brobdingnag. I half expect to see a giant hand reach over the top of the west bluff, but of course, it doesn''t happen.

    I''ve been staring at the lake for over an hour, thinking about what my cousin said to me six months ago.

    "Why don''t you just do it already?" Mia said to me late one night in December. "Walk into that stupid lake. Go back to where you belong."

    I haven''t been able to get those words out of my head all semester. Mia''s always been a little rude, but not that rude.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    And now it feels like time''s up. That''s what graduation is to me. On your mark, get set, go. Time to be independent, to take care of yourself. And I can''t. I don''t know how. I''m¡ª

    I inhale deeply, trying not to stir tears.

    Stop pondering. Just do it.

    But her words lowered my GPA, sent me to the principal''s office, the guidance counselor''s office. They know I''m more broken than ever. They know if I don''t change, I''ll fail at life.

    So do it!

    I lower my face onto my knees and shiver.

    "Don''t cry. Don''t cry. Not in public," I whisper to myself.

    The north shore beach buzzes with activity¡ªpeople grilling lunches, children frolicking around the beach and splashing in the water. I try to drown out their screams and concentrate on my breathing. It doesn''t help.

    A heaviness weighs down on my emotions, stronger and with more force. I could puke I feel so terrible.

    You drove all this way. What''s the point if you don''t do it?

    Before the tears can fully form, I drop my beach towel and force myself to walk over to the lake''s edge. Though no one around me hesitates on running straight in, it looks cold. It seems to warn me to flee. I almost do, but somehow there''s a sense of relief.

    That''s right. It''ll be over soon now.

    Tracing the perimeter of the lake, I''m forced to maneuver around several groups of people. I nearly bump shoulders with a thin-faced man, then pass a group of college students. A red haired girl sits with her arms around her knees as a guy rubs sunscreen over her back. A blond-haired guy sits beside them, partially on the grass, slapping a football repetitively in his hands.

    "So after lunch," I overhear the blond guy say. "Should we go hiking or . . ."

    But then his eyes land on me. He stops smacking the ball and gives me a look ¨C a look that causes me to avert my eyes and comb my fingers through my hair.

    "Braydon, why would I put on a bikini to go hiking?" the redhead beside him says. "I''m tanning, and then I''m going swimming."

    A few paces away, I stop along the empty western end of the beach, past the buoys that mark the end of the swimming area. There''s more seaweed here, but this is the best spot I can find. Still, I linger at the lake''s edge, letting the water lick my toes. It terrifies me.Why have I chosen to die in the manner that frightens me to death?

    "Maybe I haven''t," the words escape from my mouth in a whisper. "Maybe I''m just looking for a cure. If I walk in, I won''t be afraid of the water anymore."

    I cling to that as I close my eyes and enter the lake. It''s a slow journey. My body trembles. My legs feel like rubber. Seaweed tickles at my feet and ankles. With each step, my heels sink into warm sand, giving me the illusion that I''m edging toward quicksand, and the liquid keeps rising around me¡ªmy knees, my thighs, the bottom of my bathing suit.

    You can do this.

    But it feels like cold, dead hands washing over me, trying to pull me in. They welcome me home, to the grave I never should have escaped.

    I can no longer move. I''m frozen with terror, and the water weighs heavily upon my torso. Still, I bend my knees, covering my shoulders and wetting the ends of my strawberry-blond hair.

    My breath quickens. Tears stream down my face, and I open my eyes. My eyes dart around¡ªa few distant heads bobbing in the water. The shore is so far away.

    "What am I doing?" I cry out, and then the memories of what my father did flood my mind.

    I am submerged under dark waters with two hazy light sources rippling from above. The top of my head aches from the constant pulling at my hair. My lungs feel tightly clenched within my chest, squeezing out the last bits of air, desperate for me to take another breath. But, I can''t.

    His hand grips me by the hair and holds my entire body under water. My legs kick. There is no surface for my feet to make contact with. Below me seems an empty abyss. I struggle to untangle his hand from my hair as my lungs and throat scream at me. Involuntarily, my mouth opens, and I gulp a large breath. Water floods my mouth, and my lungs burn. My fingers brush the smooth side of something hard.

    Everything shifts. I am simply floating underwater. There is no hand above me. There is nothing around me for my hands to touch, nothing for my feet to touch. I am surrounded in a vacuum of dark water.

    Though short, my mind seems to make the memory last forever. I stand straight up as waves of dizziness pass over me, and a wind blows through my hair and gives me goosebumps.

    I''m going to faint. I''m going to faint, and I''m going to drown. I might as well just¡ª

    "Alison."

    I startle at the sound of my name, but I don''t know if I heard it or imagined it. Turning my head frantically, I search for the owner, my rescuer, but my eyes land on the west bluff looming over the lake. That''s when I see the figure looking at me from the edge of the bluff.

    He stands among the trees and large gray boulders, his dark hair wavering in the wind as his loose clothing pulls against his thin frame. Something about him is out of place, but¡ª

    My vision fades to black. There''s a splash. Water is engulfing my face, bubbling up and flooding my nostrils and mouth. I am fainting. I am faintingin the water.

 2 - Effigies and Crows

    "Oh my God. Is she alright?"

    "Help me."

    Hands grip me, pull me out of the water, and set me down on my back. A bright light shines through my eyelids, and instinctively, I roll onto my side and cough up water. Lots of it. It''s more like vomiting. I blink several times, trying to adjust to my surroundings and the reality of air. It hurts to breathe, and yet it brings such relief.

    "I''ve been trying to call," a guy says. "Can''t seem to keep a signal."

    My pulse hammers through my veins, and yet I try to get up. Too early. Blackness encroaches my vision.

    "It''s okay," my hero says. "She wasn''t under that long."

    "I told you to switch networks," a girl says.

    "It''s these damned bluffs. They block the signal."

    The blond guy¡ªmy hero¡ªshakes his head. "She wasn''t under that long," he says again.

    The darker haired man scoffs. "You and your damned hero-complex, Braydon. You know you can''t save¡ª"

    "Hey, he just saved her life," the red-headed girl says. "Give him a break, Jesse."

    "Whatever." And Jesse storms off.

    Waves of dizziness crash over me, but I need to leave. I need to get away from this Goddamn lake. And these people. This crowd.

    "Nessa, why don''t you grab some towels?"

    "Sure," the girl says.

    I try to sit up. He won''t let me. "You should keep your head low. Elevate your legs."

    "Don''t touch me!"

    "Okay. Okay."

    And for a while, I keep my legs intentionally down. Ugh! He''s probably right. So I raise my knees and grumble internally.

    "Can I get your name?" Braydon asks. I don''t respond. "Who are you here with? I''m sure they''ve got to be wondering where you are."

    To that, I chuckle a little, but it quickly turns to coughing.

    "I need to sit up," I say, and thankfully he allows me. Still, I don''t look at him. I fold my legs, hug them, and lean my face into my knees.

    A towel is draped over my shoulders, and the Braydon asks the girl to give us some space. She runs off and everything is silent again with the exception of the waves before us, my breathing, and the distant cries of children elsewhere on the beach.

    "You know," he says. "I know what you were doing out there."

    I throw him a quick glance.

    "Do you want to talk about it?"

    I hug my legs tighter.

    "It''s sort of a permanent solution to a¡ª"

    I look at him. "What? To a temporary problem? What do you know?"

    He looks stunned into silence, but I can''t look at him anymore. My burst of momentary confidence is gone, and I sink my head to my knees and cocoon myself under the towel.

    He touches my back, but I shoulder him away.

    "Go away," I say.

    And then he must, because I hear him move. A cool fear overwhelms me. I''m not sure why. While he was present, I wanted nothing but for him to go away. Now that he''s gone, I feel . . . rejected.

    You''re loathsome, that inner-voice speaks to me again. Sometimes it just takes a moment for people to realize it.

    Just as I think I might have the strength to stand up and leave, Braydon sits beside me again and offers a bottled water.

    "Thanks," I mumble sheepishly. Feeling overly self-aware, I take a few sips and offer it back.

    "No, it''s yours," he says and places the cap in my free hand. "And you''re welcome, and I''m sorry."

    I look at him as I take another swig of the water. His blond hair is short but long on top, and his teeth are overly perfect and white¡ªlike a guy in some dental ad.

    Brianna would like him. Mia too, probably. Me? I just like him because he''s giving me attention. Isn''t that how it always is?

    Embarrassed by his unflinching gaze, I turn my gaze back to the lake, and my heart sinks. I won''t be able to make another attempt. Going out again would be torture.

    "I didn''t catch your name," the man with the perfect smile says.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    "I''ve failed," I whisper.

    "I''m sorry?"

    I succeed at standing up this time and start brushing the sand off my arms.

    "I have to be going now." My legs feel like Jello, but I manage to maintain balance as I pass the bikini-clad redhead. Then, I realize the towel I''m holding doesn''t belong to me. I turn back and hand it to him ¨C No, to the redhead. I correct myself midway. I don''t want to appear that I''m favoring her boyfriend.

    "Here," I say. "Thanks, again."

    I avoid eye contact with everyone, and the girl hesitates in accepting the beach towel. The urge to run away strengthens. If someone doesn''t take the towel from my hands, I''m dropping it and running.

    "Can I walk you¡ª" Braydon says.

    "Nope, I''m fine," I say quickly.

    Then I force the towel in the girl''s hand, partially dropping it in the process, turn around, and walk off as fast as my legs will carry me. Damn that I''m still not feeling 100%. Damn that this beach is so dang long. Damn that I''m not even sure where I''m going.

    "Wait. Hey, Miss. Wait. Please." Braydon jogs after me and stops in front of me. Again, I avoid his gaze. "I''m not comfortable just letting a pretty girl run off after she''s nearly drowned."

    I glance briefly at his face. He called me pretty? I''m not pretty ¡ªnot really.

    But no time for thoughts like that. My heart is racing like a rabbit''s in my chest. I''ve got to get out of here before I have a nervous breakdown here . . . on the beach . . . in front of everyone!

    "I have to go," I say.

    He gestures with his hands. "Wait. Just a second, okay?"

    And for some reason, I do. It''s foolish, I know. Any minute I could break down into large sobs, gripping my chest, hyperventilating, and causing the same sort of catastrophe that happened my first day of senior year. Only this time, when the hospital calls to inform my aunt that my ''heart attack'' was merely a panic attack, she''ll find out I''m in Baraboo. My aunt hates Baraboo.

    The guy returns with a permanent marker, then grabs my hand and writes some numbers.

    "I know I can''t stop you," he says and then looks up into my eyes. "But you call me if¡ª" His gray eyes plead with me for a second before I avert my gaze down to my hand. " ¨C if you need any help. Don''t hesitate, okay? I don''t bite."

    Everyone says that! Why does everyone say that?

    Stupidly, I nod. I don''t know why. It means nothing. Would it be rude to try to rub the number off?

    "Is there any way I could convince you to give me your name?" he says. "I''m Braydon Klein, by the way."

    I respond so quietly, he is forced to say, "What was that?"

    "Alison," I say sheepishly. "I''m Alison Halse." Immediately, I question the prudence of telling him my last name.

    "Alison," he repeats. I''m surprised he''s smiling. "Are you sure you don''t want me walking you back, Alison?"

    I shake my head, and finally, he lets me leave.

    Taking the steps up to the grassy area, I jog back the way I came and come to a large mound. A wooden sign before it reads ''KEEP OFF'' in bold white, and below that a plaque that reads ''LINEAR EFFIGY MOUND.'' My beach towel lies crumbled and twisted on it.

    Perfect. It seems I wasn''t even thinking straight before I went into the lake. I''m surprised no one shooed me off before.

    I lumber over the mound to try to snatch the towel before anyone notices, and with a swish, there is a quick peck on the back of my head. My hair flutters up, and I grip my scalp.

    "What the¡ª"

    I feel for blood. There is a flutter of black wings, and the bird is in the tree squawking before me.

    "Stupid crow."

    The bird opens its beak, and someone behind me says, "The sign says keep off."

    "Yeah," I say, rubbing my head. "I know. Sorry." A bird just attacked me, but let''s pay closer attention to the sacred mound of dirt.

    Gathering everything, I pull over my brown cover-up dress, slip on my flip flops, and pull my bag over my shoulder. And then all the anxiety plummets me.

    Leave! Now!

    So I run.

    As my flip flops slap against the pavement, I dwell on the consequences of my impulsiveness. Aunt Lindsay is going to be mad, not concerned. I''m certainly going to miss my graduation. And then life goes on as before ¨C and yet not.

    School''s over. I am the same, and I have nothing but a bleak and black future ahead of me¡ªa monotone existence: TV dinners, Netflix, and radio to fill the silence, the Internet to give me the illusion of social connection.

    I cannot hold back the tears much longer. My chest tightens, my heart races, and I feel as if I''m drowning all over again. Each step seems to promise several more before I reach my aunt''s hybrid.

    I key my way inside, lock myself in, sink into the seat, and cover my head with the beach towel again. Then I scream. I whimper. I sob. The tears flow. My chest shakes. I cry like a baby and let all the tension release from my body in one nauseating ride.

    I don''t know how long I go on, but eventually, a tired melancholic calm comes over me. I pull tissue from the glove-box, mop my cheeks, clear my sinuses, pull down the visor, and reapply the concealer under my eyes.

    I look at myself in the mirror, and a shy frightful thing looks back at me. Definitely not pretty. My skin is deathly pale, my eyes are puffy from tears, my hair is still shedding sand, and my cheeks have a babyish puffiness to them.

    "It''s okay," I tell myself. "Lindsay isn''t kicking you out just yet. There''s time."

    Though, maybe upping the dosage on the antidepressant would be advised.

    Another half-hour later I awake to the sound of something smacking the glass my cheek rests upon. I open my eyes and catch a brief fluttering of something black through the corner of my left eye ¨C a bird or something. It doesn''t last long. Then I stare at my aunt''s steering wheel.

    I''m still in the parking lot, sweating and feeling a little ill from the heat.

    I pull my phone from the glove box and open the car door to get out. A cool breeze greets me, sending goosebumps immediately to my forearms. A crow from a nearby tree caws at me, and I close the door, leaning my weight against it as I check my text messages. There are several from my aunt, but I only read the first one.

    Lindsay: Where the Hell are you?

    I hit reply. "Sorry drove to . . ." I hesitate on telling her where I am and delete a few letters.

    A soft childlike cooing of ''Aw-lee, Aw-lee'' reaches my ears. A crow whines this sound from the tree before me.

    ''Aw-Lee, Aw-lee. Aw-lee on.''

    It makes some hallow clicking noises, tilting its head abruptly as it peers at me through its nearest eye.

    I go back to my phone.

    "Went on a drive. Will be home soon. Love you." Whatever I type sounds so inadequate. I hit send anyway.

    "Hello, Alison," someone says¡ªsome guy I didn''t realize was standing right in front of me¡ª, and my phone slips from my fingers and hits the pavement.

 3 - Long Lost Friend

    I scramble down to my knees to retrieve my phone before lifting my eyes. A pair of dirty bare feet. Khaki torn trousers lined with mud. A loose fitting Renaissance-styled shirt over a thin but fit torso. I glimpse the man''s face, shyly. Dark hair ends just above his shoulders, and a light beard lines his chin.

    I stand back up slowly and stop breathing.

    "Sorry. I didn''t mean to frighten you." He has something like a French accent, but it sounds a little unusual. And he watches me, eyes me cautiously as if waiting for some reaction.

    I say nothing. I don''t even move as he continues to approach.

    "I saw you pass out in the water. I wanted to make sure you were . . . "

    My heart patters quickly in my chest. I think I''m too afraid to breathe.

    He slows his walking. "I''m not going to hurt you if that''s what you''re worried about."

    I shake my head instinctively, but his suggestion makes me worried. Images of girls alone in parking lots being abducted flood my mind. I''m sure I''ve seen security footage on the news of such things. Sometimes the girls'' bodies aren''t found, right? They''re just presumed dead.

    The stranger stops and puts his hands out.

    "You don''t remember me," he says. "Do you?"

    He''d been the one standing on the rock before I passed out in the water, but . . .

    "I mean from before," he says. "When we were kids."

    I consider running, but where? I''m too shaken to go back toward the beach, and that''s where the largest crowd is. Maybe I can get back into the car, lock the door, and¡ª

    "You''re Alison Halse," he says. "You used to live on a farm off of Walnut Street. Your favorite book was ''The Little Vampire'', and you''ve been living with your aunt and uncle since . . ." He hesitates. "Well, it''ll be 8 years this October."

    He''s wrong about my uncle. Lindsay and Matt divorced five years ago, but he''s right about everything else.

    "Who¡ªwho did you say you are?"

    He walks up beside me.

    "Philip Dussault," he says. "I was shorter then and didn''t have the beard. Also, I''ve built a little muscle."

    He lifts his sleeve and flexes his arm a little, giving me a small smile.

    "Alright, okay," I say and fumble with my keys. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

    As I turn to unlock the door, he leans his side against my car, just close enough to block my way in.

    "We should hang out," he says. "Catch up. It isn''t every day that you bump into a friend you haven''t seen in nearly a decade."

    "Um . . . "

    "Have you had lunch?" he says. "We could go down to the Chateau and get a bite to eat. My treat."

    My body starts to shiver at the thought of heading back toward the lake. I pray he doesn''t notice.

    "It''ll be fun," he says. "Besides you still seem a bit shaken anyway. It''ll give you ¨C "

    "I can''t!" God, I''m overreacting!

    Good, my mind tells me. Maybe it''ll scare him away.

    "What''s wrong?" he says.

    And then something happens. It''s hard to describe. There seems a gentle push in my mind, and out of my mouth plops the words, "I''m afraid of the lake . . . well, water, really, and people, and . . . I just need to go. I shouldn''t have come here."

    "You''re afraid of water," he repeats quietly. The frown on his face says everything I need to know.

    A cloud momentarily blocks the sun, and I think, Oh, God! Here comes the ridicule.

    "Uh, yeah," I say. "It''s sort of a phobia thing. Well, not a thing. It''s a phobia and not my only one. It''s why I passed out in the lake. God, why am I telling you this? I gotta go. Goodbye."

    But he doesn''t get out of my way. He seems to consider saying something, but then just nods.

    "Okay," he finally says. "Okay. Let''s go somewhere else. How about the DQ on twelve?"

    I blink a few times. "I''m sorry. What?"

    And then I take a misstep. Philip jumps forward, catches me and sets me back on my feet.

    "You weren''t kidding about that anxiety," he says. "Here." He removes my keys from my fingers. "I''ll drive."

    I can''t believe I''m letting him drive my aunt''s car. What''s wrong with me?

    We don''t talk much on the drive. I sit glued to the passenger window watching my ghostly reflection speed through the trees. I keep thinking the phrase ''I hope I don''t die'' like it''s my personal mantra. But why should I care? If this stranger, Philip, is taking me away to my death, isn''t he doing me a favor? Then again, such murders are rarely simple and painless, are they?

    Meanwhile, Philip''s driving is terrible. He rides the line the majority of the time, breaks abruptly as if his goal is to give us whiplash and takes turns too sharply. It''s not so much of a danger while we''re on the country roads, but as we turn onto 12, he nearly sideswipes another vehicle.

    I receive a text from my aunt just at that moment.

    Lindsay: You get your ass home now!!

    My fingers hover above the keyboard. What could I possibly say? Going out to eat with a stranger? I think he''s safe, but just in case, we just turned right off of 159 and are heading on 12 toward Baraboo? Please don''t be mad? Without sending a reply, I drop the phone to my lap.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    "How about some music?" Philip suggests and bumps on the radio. The interior of the car fills with Blue Oyster Cult''s ''Don''t Fear the Reaper.''

    How appropriate, I think, and Philip smiles as he taps the rhythm on the steering wheel.

    "You sing?" he asks, nudging me a little with his thumb.

    I shake my head. He smiles, turns up the volume, and starts to sing along. My eyes widen as goosebumps run down my arms and a shiver through my spine. His voice purrs through me. I can''t help but turn and look at him. If I weren''t petrified of him, I might¡ª

    "Oh God," I say. "Red light. Red light. Stop!"

    We skid and land in the midst of traffic. I squint my eyes shut. Tires squeal. A horn honks. I wait for the sound of breaking glass. Then my head hits the headrest, and we suddenly speed forward.

    "Sorry," I hear Philip say. "I don''t usually drive."

    I slide into a booth at DQ and bury my face into my hands. My body shivers. I''m too exhausted to cry again, too emotionally whipped to have another anxiety attack, though my insides feel like ice. I wish I could just leave¡ªpull through the drive-thru, get my meal, and eat in the privacy of my aunt''s vehicle.

    At least he took me to DQ and not . . . elsewhere. Still, I decide that the salt shaker is much more interesting than my anxiety¡ªor rather that it takes my mind off of it.

    As it finally dawns on me that Philip could get kicked out for being barefoot, he slides into the booth across from me. I see his hands out of the corner of my eye as he slides my keys across the table and sets a plastic order number down. "Your meal will be coming up soon," he says. "But, while I wouldn''t advise it, you''re free to escape."

    I cup my hand over the keys. "Thanks." Turning my gaze out the window, I try to isolate him out of my field of vision. There isn''t much to look at, just the parking lot, grass, trees, power lines, blue skies. There''s a car dealership a little ways in the distance, but it''s mostly open space.

    "Beautiful day, isn''t it?" Philip says.

    I look at the window seal. "It''s okay."

    "Alison," he says. "You can talk to me."

    "I¡ªI''m not very good at socializing."

    "No? Try me. Ask me something."

    I peek up at his face through my eyelashes. "I¡ªI," I stutter. "How are you?"

    He laughs, and I feel myself blush. "Good, good," he says. "I''m very good."

    "Okay," I mumble.

    "And how are you, ma ch¨¦rie?"

    "Fine." I hug myself and bite my bottom lip, and Philip taps his finger on the table.

    "That all you got?"

    I shrug. "I''m nervous."

    His hands edge toward mine. "Would you rather I leave?"

    I look at my hands and fidget. "Um," I say. "You don''t have to. You need a ride back, don''t you?"

    "No."

    "Oh," I say and start pushing back on my cuticles. We are silent for several seconds. Then, I glance up and notice him running his hands through his hair.

    He looks out the window. "So I guess this is goodbye." His voice has a slight quiver to it, and . . . and there''s something else. It''s not his voice. It seems some sort of static in the air. He turns his eyes toward me, and for a moment, I resist the urge to look away. But then I chicken out and shift my eyes back down to my hands.

    "I ¨C " I start.

    "Hello," an older man¡ªgraying hair, thick glasses, red apron, official DQ cap¡ªgreets us in a sing-song manner.

    I scoot away toward the window and hug myself.

    "So, we have here a chicken strip basket with a blue raspberry Artic Rush. Mm Mmm. This yours, Miss?"

    I say nothing and look down at my arms.

    After a moment, Philip says, "It''s hers. That is still what you usually order, isn''t it, Alison?"

    "Uh, yeah," I mumble.

    But, the waiter does nothing.

    "Can we have the food?" Philip says.

    "Oh!" the waiter says and then sets down the food and takes the plastic order number. "Well, if there is anything else I¡ª "

    "Merci."

    "¡ªcan get for you. Perhaps some ketchup or¡ª"

    "No," Philip says. "We''re good. "

    "Are you sure? I could¡ª"

    Again, I have that sensation of static electricity on my arms.

    "Ben," Philip says.

    And I shoot a look at Philip. He knows this guy?

    Philip smiles, peering at me through the corner of his eye.

    "As you see," he says. "We are fine here. Thank you. You can leave now."

    "Right! Of course. Enjoy your meals and thanks for stopping at DQ," Ben says, and he continues to stand there with the same silly grin on his face. Then, his eyes narrow, his smile fades and¡ª

    "Mind if I ask you a question?" Philip says.

    Ben leaves.

    "Huh?" I say.

    "Are you afraid of everyone?"

    There is a moment where I forget to breathe. "Uh ¨C yeah, sort of."

    "Why?"

    "I dunno." I open the barbecue sauce packet. "It''s just how I am. It''s how I''ve always been."

    Philip shakes his head. His eyes are on my wrists and a small frown twitches on his lips. There''s a hint of brown in his eyes. "Not always. When we were kids¡ª"

    "You really knew me?"

    His eyes waver up to my face, so I look away. "Alison, I used to camp out in your parents'' barn. Rumors spread that it was haunted because of me."

    I blink and force myself to eat. Chewing takes effort. "I remember that," I say. "I mean, the rumors, but . . ."

    "Alison, why can''t you look me in the eye?"

    I swallow. "What?"

    "This whole time," he says. "You haven''t really looked at me. Your eyes are always off in the distance or down."

    I bite my bottom lip for a second. "Yeah. People complain about that a lot. Sorry."

    He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward.

    "Alison," he says. "It''s been almost eight years. Maybe if you''d really look at me, it''d trigger something." He places his hands over top my shivering ones and waits for me, but I don''t look up. "Why does looking at me make you so nervous?"

    I shake my head quickly. I don''t know why I don''t pull away. There''s something pleasant about his touch.

    "Come on," he says. "I dare you."

    Again, the air seems electrified, but now there''s an inner tug to obey him.

    My eyes land on his lips.

    "Afraid of love at first sight or something?" he says.

    I blush with embarrassment and can''t help but to give a short smile. And then my eyes rise up to meet his. And¡ªZap! I feel it between our fingers. I feel it in my head. For a moment, I am blinded. My head aches, and then I pull free of Philip''s grip, turning my head and squinting my eyes shut.

    Philip laughs, "Oh, I''m that bad looking, am I?"

    As quickly as it came, the pain in my head and eyes dissipate, leaving a trail of intense calm in their wake. I''m no longer shivering. I no longer feel icy cold inside. I breathe in and out and look back up at Philip''s face, into his large almond-colored eyes.

    My eyes run over his features, and I feel my insides melts. This is who I''m sitting across from? This is who I''m eating lunch with?

    I breathe out, and then say, "What did you do?"

    He gives me a crooked smile. "What do you mean?"

    I blink and shake my head a few times.

    "I ¨C I feel . . . I mean . . ." I look down. "Nevermind."

    But my anxiety is gone, and it''s like looking at the world through a different lens.

 4 - Freedom In His Eyes

    An hour later, Philip and I walk the side streets of Baraboo and settle down in the grass beside some abandoned railroad tracks. My eyes seem drawn to him, a moth to a flame, and my heart bubbles with laughter and joy. I''m drunk on whatever this is. A brain tumor? A fantasy? Something else?

    Our arms almost touch. The smile never seems to leave our faces except for moments where we seem caught up in each other''s gaze. I like him. I really like him, and that''s scary.

    I eye him shyly as I ask the next question. "Do you still live around here or are you just visiting?"

    His gaze has that look, that gaze I''ve only seen in movies. It makes me feel beautiful, attractive, even more confident. He likes me, I think.

    "My place is near," he says.

    I''m slightly disappointed. I mean, I''m glad he''s not visiting from out of state, but it''d be nice if we lived even closer. It''s still a bit of a drive.

    "What about you?" he says. "What has Alison Halse been doing all these years?"

    I hug my knees. "Not much," I say. "Going to school. Living with relatives."

    "And how has that been?"

    I tilt my head and shrug. "It doesn''t feel like home. I mean, I suppose it could be worse. My aunt and uncle divorced five years ago. They have dual custody of their kids, but my aunt has always been my only legal guardian. So, I stay put."

    "But you''re 18 now," he says. "What are you going to do next?"

    I close my eyes. For some reason, it''s easier than normal to avoid thoughts of suicide. I only say, "I don''t know. I mean, I''m enrolled in a community college next semester. I''m not really excited about the degree I''m going for, but . . . it is what is it. And much of my inheritance is now available this year, so I guess the good news is that I won''t be in debt." I put my chin on my knees. "I suppose that''s the one benefit I gained from my parents'' death."

    A cool breeze teases our hair.

    "I''m sorry for your loss," he says.

    I sigh. "It was a long time ago."

    He''s quiet a moment. "I visit their graves sometimes. I never see anyone else there."

    I lean my cheek on my knees and sigh. "Yeah well, when you have an aunt who blames the events on some dark paranormal force, it''s kind of hard to visit graves."

    He looks at me. "You''re here now."

    I put my cheek on my knees. "I''m not supposed to be. My aunt would kill me."

    "And you live in Madison."

    I nod.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    He looks forward and seems deep in thought. The air becomes cool.

    After a moment of silence, I say, "You have an interesting accent. You can''t tell me you were born here."

    "I wasn''t," he says numbly.

    "So where are you from?"

    And then he takes my hand, removes it from my leg. I lift my head up and stare at him with an open jaw. I don''t resist but feel hyper-aware of the rising and falling of my chest.

    "I was born in France," he says, and this thumb rubs the back of my hand. "Lived in Montreal for a while before I found my way down here."

    "Wow. Three different countries. Were your parents in the military or something?"

    His eyes seem strange, darker, but perhaps that''s just the sun playing tricks on my vision. The breeze warms, and my hair flies in my face. He shakes his head and says in a gruff voice, "No."

    Still, I feel caught up in his gaze, and then he brushes the hair aside, touching the side of my face. I tremble a little, and he licks his lips. Oh, God. Is he going to kiss me?

    "You know," he says, softly. "My place isn''t¡ª"

    But I bury my face back into my knees. This is too fast! This is way too fast.

    He pulls his hand away. "I''m sorry," he says. "Perhaps that was too forward."

    A part of me still wants to move forward, to throw caution to the wind, but caution is good. Caution is right. You''re not even supposed to be here. You''re supposed to be¡ªI lift my head. "What time is it?"

    "Uh . . ."

    "I should get going," I say. "My aunt''s got to be blowing a gasket by now." I get up, and the sky dims.

    "Can I see you again?"

    "Um. I''d like that," I say. "Can I look you up on Facebook?"

    "Wha?"

    I blush. "I suppose I could just give you my number." And I dig through my purse for a pen and paper. I find a Walmart receipt and a pen, and then struggle to find a flat surface to write on. Without thinking, I end up using his shoulder.

    He looks at me, and briefly, our eyes meet. Then, I''m backing away and handing him the receipt.

    He hesitates on taking it.

    "Text me or call . . . or call. Whichever." My cheeks burn. A part of me still wants to change my mind and take him up on his offer.

    But he''s staring at my hand, more specifically at the black ink on the back of my hand. Braydon''s number. Oh, God! Please, just take it.

    Drops of rain hit my nose and shoulder, and I am vaguely aware that normally this would be triggering the start of an anxiety attack. Thank you, Brain tumor, I guess.

    And then Philip reaches toward me, but his hand on my cheek. He stares deeply into my eyes, and subtle pain runs from his fingertips and down my neck. And yet there''s something pleasant about. I don''t want him to let go. If he leaned in to kiss me or dragged me to the car and drove me anywhere, I wouldn''t stop him . . . and that scares me.

    A wind blows around us, waving our hair about.

    Find me at the lake. The words seem to echo in my mind.

    Then he lets go of me and takes the receipt. The wind lightens, though a rumble of thunder roars in the distance.

    "You should go," he says.

    A dust of rain moistens us. He looks off toward the hills where dark billowing clouds roll over the edge of the horizon.

    Somehow, I''m scared. I back away, almost like I want to run. He''s dangerous.

    But I hesitate. "Do you need a ride?"

    "Go," he says without looking at me.

    And I don''t look back. I run to my aunt''s hybrid, take shelter from the rain, and after I turn on the engine, I check for him in the mirror. He''s gone.

 5 - Haunted Dreams

    "Alison? Alison?"

    I tear my eyes from the portrait on the wall of a storm at sea. It''s not the first time I''ve seen this portrait. In fact, it''s been here since the first time I entered this office eight months ago. But this time I have been struck by how real the waves look. It''s like I can almost make out movement. Maybe it''s just the sound of the rain outside that enables such an illusion. It''s been storming on and off for almost a week now.

    "Huh?"

    Ms. Ray, my counselor, tilts back in her chair and taps her fancy stylus on her tablet computer. It occurs to me that she could be playing solitaire rather than taking actual notes. Maybe she''s doodling.

    "You were talking about Philip Dussault," Ms. Lee says. "How you feel like you''ve become obsessed with him."

    I look at my counselor ¨C her designer glasses, her boy-short haircut, skirt suit, her I-just-graduated-from-college youthful appearance. She tries so hard to look professional but can''t seem to get rid of that sneer of distaste off her face. She doesn''t like me, I hear myself think, but then I respond. So, why don''t you just ask for another referral? . . . Because it''s obviously impossible to find a good therapist. The profession is a load of ¡ª

    Ms. Ray sighs heavily and checks her watch.

    Oh, screw it. Give her a chance. "I¡ªI''ve been having nightmares," I say.

    "You''re changing the subject?"

    "Eh, maybe," I say. "I don''t know. Feels related."

    Her stylus bounces across her tablet. "Okay. So, tell me about these dreams."

    I look back at the waves in the portrait. It seems easier to call to mind my memories of the dreams while I look at it, makes me feel like I''m dreaming again. A chill comes over me, and I wrap my arms around myself.

    "I''m walking into the lake¡ª in the dream," I say. "It''s night, and someone is singing¡ªor maybe it''s just the insects humming. Anyway, it''s a full moon. Kind of romantic, you know? And the music gets faster and louder the deeper I walk into the lake. Each note¡ªit¡ª it seems to force me to continue and to . . . uh . . . " I close my eyes. "embrace death?"

    Neither of us say anything for several moments.

    "Philip is there," I say but deliberately withhold how few clothes he''s wearing. "He tells me to be brave, and I keep moving forward. The water eventually covers my head, but it doesn''t feel like I can''t breathe. Instead, I just keep walking. Everything is dark for a long time, and then there is this red light. I walk closer and closer toward it, and I can hear my heart beat in my ears. Faster and faster and faster. But then it stops, and I realize I''ve died and the light before me is the gate to Hell."

    My therapist waits a moment to speak.

    "Okay."

    She swipes the stylus across her screen a few times. "So, you''ve been having this dream for how long?"

    "A week."

    "Since your graduation."

    "Since my trip to the lake," I say. "I didn''t get home in time to attend my graduation."

    "I see."

    Her eyes scan the screen as she mumbles a few sentences, "Philip hasn''t called. . . . blames self . . . avoidance . . . lake, lake, lake . . . hmm."

    I roll my eyes. A counselor who skims her notes out loud? Give me a¡ª

    Ms. Ray leans forward in her leather chair and looks at me. "Alison, you know you can be straight with me, right? I''m going to ask you to be real honest now, okay? No judgment regardless of what your answer is."

    I nod.

    "When you walked into that lake last Friday, what were your intentions?"

    I open my mouth to speak, to shoot back her implied accusations right back in her face.

    I breathe instead. My eyes land on her desk¡ªthe nameplate that reads Sonya Lee Ray LPC embossed in the thin gold, photographs of Ms. Ray with her parents at Christmas, a photograph with her arms around the neck of someone handsome and professional looking, so many pictures of smiling faces.

    I sigh. "I don''t know anymore."

    "Well, maybe you need to think about that harder." Why does she have to sound so condescending?

    I frown and look at my hands. "I just want my suffering to end."

    "Alison," she says and leans toward me again. "I know you''ve gone through a lot of therapists. Wanting to give up is understandable, but you need to look at how far you''ve come."This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    I suck in my bottom lip.

    "I think the real problem is that you''re lonely," she says. "It''s not so much about Philip as it is how you felt around him. You were confident and sociable and enjoyed yourself. And I can tell you, that if you can do that once, you can do it again."

    "I dunno. He¡ª"

    "Look, I''m sure the attraction was authentic," she says. "I''m not meaning to demean that, but you''re the one who called your interest obsessive. And I''m asking if that is a healthy way to see things. What''s the need behind it? If you can identify that, you can find the solution that isn''t dependent on whether or not he calls."

    I blink, and the words ''I can be found at the lake. Come back'' whisper through my mind. But I know that''s not the answer she''s looking for.

    "How?" I say.

    "Well, what doors are open to you? What could you do to improve the quality of your life?"

    "I dunno," I mumble.

    She''s silent a moment while I lean forward with my head bowed. Then she says,"Well, what''s that written on the back of your hand?"

    I look at Braydon''s number, the faded permanent ink on the back of my hand. It''s still legible. I look at her with an open jaw. "What are you saying? I have to call Braydon?"

    "I''m just pointing out a potential opportunity. You could call him. Ask him to a movie or something."

    "You mean, like a date?"

    For a moment Ms. Ray''s eyebrows furrow, but she laughs it off quickly. "It doesn''t have to be a date. That''s not the point. The point is, do something. Don''t just wait for life to happen to you. Make something happen."

    A half hour later, I''m still sitting in my Toyota Corolla in my counselor''s parking lot. The streets are wet but drying, and Braydon''s number continues to mock me. I feel as if the numbers have turned into little demons sticking out their tongues and crying out, Scaredy cat. You won''t do it. DELETE ME! Start the car. Drive on. It''s safe now.

    If I hit send, I know I''m won''t be able to speak. I''m too nervous. I''ll forget how to breathe. The most I''ll be able to get out is an inappropriate squeak.

    I close my eyes and press send like it''s a hot burner.

    Ring. I put my phone to my ear. Ring. All he''s going to hear is me breathing. That''ll be creepy. Ring. Hello, Braydon, this is your stereotypical creepy stalker chick. Ring. I''m not stalking you. My counselor forced me to do it. Ring. And then¡ª

    "You have reached the voice mailbox of . . ." Long silence. Giggling in the background. A distant voice says, "So is it recording yet? You should have heard¡ª " Laughter. "Oh, yes. This is Braydon Klein. Sorry, I missed you ¨C " I hang up; toss the phone aside. It lands on the floor, the passenger side.

    Three heavy breaths shake my insides. Shivers go through my spine and up to my head. I need to get out of the car. I need to get out and run¡ªrun far away, pretend I didn''t do this.

    I move to open my car door, but then there is a sudden downpour. The rain drums hard over the vehicle for several minutes, streams of water rushing down my windshield and turning all the scenery outside into a messy blur. I stare at it, willing it to subside, and gradually the wind sweeps it away toward the west.

    Then, my phone rings. I stare at it for a long moment, my mind jumping back and forth between the possible options¡ªBraydon calling me back, Lindsay asking why I''m not home yet, Philip¡ª

    I reach down, grasp the phone and answer. "Hello?" Barely audible and sheepish. Lovely.

    "Hello," says the voice on the other end. It''s male. "Who is this?"

    "Um . . . This? This is-is-is . . . um . . . It''s Alison. Who''s this?"

    He laughs.

    "The person you called?"

    "Oh."

    "Do you know who this is?"

    "Um." My heart beats wildly, but I''m too nervous to say Philip''s name.

    Then, he responds, "It''s Braydon Klein."

    "Oh," I say, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach. My body sweats. It''s not just the anxiety or disappointment. The car is hot and stuffy. I push open the door to let in a breeze. My car door dings at me.

    "Who were you looking for?" Braydon asks.

    I close it again.

    "Um . . . " Would it be wrong of me to hang up at this time? "This is Alison Halse, the girl from the beach?" Why am I saying that as a question!

    Silence.

    I feel like I''m suffocating. I open the door again. More dinging. I scrabble out, close the door, and lean on it briefly only to pull back because now the back of my shirt is wet.

    "Hello?" Braydon says.

    "Um," I say. "This is Alison Halse. I think we met at Devil''s Lake . . . la¡ªlast week." I squint and bite my tongue.

    "The suicide girl?"

    I can''t speak. I have no voice.

    "I''m sorry," he says. "I mean the girl who nearly drowned?"

    "Uh . . . Yeah."

    "O.M.G." He actually speaks the letters. "I totally didn''t expect this . . . um . . . "

    Oh great. He was only being polite when he gave me his number. I shouldn''t have called.

    "So . . ." he says. "Uh . . . How''re you doing?"

    "Fine."

    "Okay. Well, that''s great," he says. "Listen, we''re kind of in the middle of some severe weather here right now. Mind if I call you back later?"

    I bite my bottom lip. He must be further west than I am.

    "I dunno," I say.

    I fiddle with my hair to give myself something to do.

    "Uh . . . Alison? Is something wrong?"

    "No. Sorry."

    "Okay, well," he says. "I''ll try calling again later tonight. Say seven or eight? Weather permitting. You take care of yourself."

    "Okay."

    "Well, uh, bye."

    "Bye."

    I hang up and put my face in my palm.

 6 - Alone in Company

    By mid-afternoon, I am home. My two younger cousins¡ªthe tall and intelligent Brianna and her rebellious sister Mia ¨C shuffle into the doorway with their weekend luggage. My aunt and uncle divorced five years ago, and while I''ve remained under the total custody of my Aunt, my cousins seem to have made living out of a suitcase a way of life. It doesn''t seem to affect them too much, though. They''re both beautiful and full of self-confidence unlike me.

    Long silky, dark hair, white shorts, a black top and a lacy pink cardigan, my 17-year-old cousin, Brianna, greets her mother with a one-arm hug.

    "Hi, Mom," Brianna says with a sigh. "Nice haircut."

    "Oh, do you like it?" she says. "I was thinking it maybe looked too roaring 20''s."

    "Oh, no," Brianna says. "It''s great."

    Fifteen-year-old Mia¡ªsassy hair, denim shorts and a ''coexist'' medallion around her neck¡ªscoots around behind her sister and dodges her mother. She leaves some of her baggage at the door.

    Remembering what my therapist said, I grab Mia''s luggage and follow her into the bedroom. Behind me, I hear Aunt Lindsay compliment me for my gesture, but Mia only turns her head to sneer at me.

    Mia drops her duffel bag near the doorway of our shared bedroom before flopping onto the bottom bunk.

    "Where would you like these?" I ask.

    "Where-ever," she says. "You know I didn''t ask for your help, right?"

    I set the other two bags near her duffel bag.

    "I know," I say.

    But then she protests, "Not like that. Some of the stuff is fragile in there."

    She grabs the makeup box from me, and I try to avoid entertaining questions over whether she has something other than make-up inside.

    "Oh. Sorry."

    She carefully sets the makeup box behind her bed. Then she lays back down. I take the twin opposite of the bunk and sit down across from her, clapping my hands between my knees. Moments pass, and I still don''t know what to say.

    "God, would you stop that?" Mia says.

    "Sorry."

    "Why are you even in here?" she asks.

    "To talk . . . I guess."

    She rolls onto her side. "You want to talk to me?"

    "No."

    "No?" she says with a chuckle. "What?"

    "It''s sort of an assignment," I start.

    "An assignment . . ." she scoffs and then laughs again. "You''re not very good at being discreet, are you?"

    "Uh ¨C "

    She scoots her legs around and sits up.

    "Okay, so here''s what you''re going to do," she says. "You can tell Mom that you see no reason for her to worry her little head off. Mia is being a good little girl now, and Dad is not being overly permissive. She feels so humiliated about repeating her freshman year that she vows to herself never to skip class or run away again ¨C no matter how hot the guy is. And where Mia steers wrong, Dad''s got a total handle on things. Do that, and I''ll come to your defense when Mom sets Brianna on you. Okay?"

    "Uh, I think you misunderstood ¨C " I start.

    "Oh no," she says with a smile. "I know exactly what this is about. No more drugs, no more hokey s¨¦ances, no more alcohol. Just keep things cool. It''s a deal, Okay? Mia''s a little angel. Got it?"

    I hesitate.

    "Got it?" she says again.

    I bite my bottom lip briefly.

    "Okay," I say and then stand up to leave the room.

    "Hey," Mia says. "Where are you going? You have to stay in here and at least pretend we''re having a long talk."

    When I enter the kitchen later that evening for dinner, Brianna and Mia are already at the table whispering to each other. I catch words like, ''graduation,'' ''non-refundable'' and ''selfish moocher.'' Brianna''s eyes then land on me. She nudges her sister who immediately shuts up. I sit down at the table and stare at Mia. Mia narrows her eyebrows and shakes her head, so I avert my gaze to the table.

    When my aunt sets the last plate of organic greens on the table, conversation resumes and revolves around the lives of my cousins. I contribute very little, contenting myself to stuffing my face.

    "And I''m like," Brianna says. "Oh, yeah, Dad. That''s not tacky at all.''"

    Lindsay laughs. "If I recall, one of your father''s was almost entirely of his fist. Had to show off his class ring or something."

    "Oh my God."

    "I think it''s sorta cool," Mia says. "Sorta like ''Take that. I gradumacated, Suckers.''"

    And without warning, Mia kicks my foot. I look up from my salad, and Mia slightly gestures with her head toward her mother.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    "So, what did you decide?" Lindsay says..

    "Well, Brooke is having hers done downtown."

    "Oh. There are some nice historic sites down there. Have they finished the work on the capital? It''d be a nice spot if the scaffolding isn''t still up."

    "Personally, I was thinking . . . Picnic Point? They¡ª"

    Lindsay stabs her greens a little too forcefully. "No."

    Brianna closes her mouth, and Mia kicks me in the shin this time.

    "Ow," I say.

    Mia glares at me. Apparently, reacting in pain to a kicked shin violates her code of secrecy.

    Brianna and my aunt continue their conversation. "You know I don''t like you girls hanging around haunted sites."

    "It''s not haunted."

    Lindsay stuffs another forkful of greens in her mouth. "That''s my answer, Bri. It''s not going to¡ª"

    "Mia, stop!" I say, and everyone stops talking and looks at me. My face must turn a violent shade of pink. Meekly I add, rubbing my shin with my hand. "That hurts."

    Then my aunt and Brianna exchange a look.

    Brianna speaks. "So how''s the job search, Alison?"

    "Huh?"

    "Yes, Alison," my aunt says. "I''d love to hear where you are on your job applications."

    Oh crap! I forgot I promised Lindsay I''d find a job. Turn 18. Find a job. Start paying my aunt rent. That was the deal.

    I shrug and stare down at my salad.

    "You know," Brianna says. "I heard some of the parks in the Dells may still be hiring for the summer season."

    "Oh. Yeah. Wisconsin Dells." I pause. "Wait. Isn''t that an hour away?"

    Lindsay lowers her glass of water. "More if you take the detour around Baraboo, but a lot of those places provide summer housing."

    I lift my head and stare at my aunt with wide eyes. This time I''m sure I''ve gone pale in the face.

    Then Mia sighs and surprises us all. "Do you really think you should rush her, Mom?"

    Lindsay frowns at her youngest daughter.

    "I mean, now that she''s got access to her trust fund, don''t you think¡ª"

    "That money''s for school."

    "That''s not necessarily true, though," Mia says and then glances at me. "Is it, Alison?" She looks back at her mom. "It''s Alison''s money now, isn''t it? I think the real issue is you wouldn''t feel comfortable taking Eric and Julie''s old¡ª"

    "Mia, stay out of this!" Brianna says.

    But I''ve already had enough. I drop my fork in my half-eaten salad. "Right. Well, if you''ll excuse me." And I leave.

    To be honest, I''m stunned Mia stood up for me. I''ve never seen her treat me with a kinder side before. But it''s as I''m opening the door to our bedroom that she grabs my wrist.

    "Hey," she says in a hushed tone. "We had an agreement. I bail you when Bri does her thing. You¡ª"

    I let out a long sigh. "Oh, Mia. Lindsay never asked me to investigate your life. The assignment was homework from my therapist. I''m just supposed to be making an effort to socialize more."

    Her mouth hangs open, and I pull free of her grip.

    "Sorry," I say. "I guess I failed."

    I start heading into the bedroom, and behind me she says, "You used me!" But I don''t want to argue with her. I close the door and lock it. For now, I just need my space.

    At 7:40, I ignore Braydon''s phone call but listen to the voicemail immediately.

    "Hey, this is Braydon. You know, the superhero who saved you from drowning." He gives a breathy laugh. "I guess I just missed you. Give me a call if you''d like to chat. I''ll be up ''til 11. ''Night."

    I sigh, and stare at his phone number, my finger hovering over send. My hand shakes. I can''t. I just can''t ¨C not in this condition. I need something to calm me, to reassure me.

    I open up Facebook and do a search for Braydon Klein. Unlike Philip, he''s easy to find. I scour through photos of football matches, family gatherings, (several pictures at the dentist office? Hmm.) graduation pictures, and pictures of him smiling with various other youthful faces.

    I call. Braydon answers on the second ring. He doesn''t even say hello.

    "Alison?"

    "Um . . . " I say, overly aware of my voice. "Yes?"

    "Hi!" he says.

    "Hi."

    "I''m really glad you called," he says. "Thought maybe you bailed on me."

    I mumble, "Oh."

    Silence.

    "So," he says, and I hear movement through the phone. "How are you this evening?"

    "Fine."

    "That''s good to hear," he says.

    "Yep," I say.

    Awkward pause.

    "So," he says. "I take it you haven''t had any more near-death experiences since last week."

    He gives a slight chuckle, but stops suddenly when I simply say, "No."

    Again, there is nothing but a period of breathing over the phone. I''m terrible at this.

    Shut up! I have to do this.

    "So, listen ¨C " he starts.

    And then I squint my eyes shut and force the following words out, "Do you want ¨C I mean ¨C would you ¨C " My mind is drawing a blank. What was I supposed to ask him? "A date. Do you want to go on a date . . . or something?"

    Shit! What did I just say? I''m not even interested in Braydon like that. Have I gone mad?

    My heart races, and there''s nothing but silence on the other end.

    "Hello?" I say.

    I could cry. I want to hang up now.

    Do it!

    I resist, then Braydon chuckles a little awkwardly.

    "Wow," he says.

    Hang up now. This will only get worse.

    "Wow. I certainly wasn''t expecting that," Braydon says.

    I''m so nervous, I''m starting to feel dizzy.

    "I''m sorry," I nearly cry. Thank God it just sounds breathless rather than whimpering. "Is that bad?"

    "No," he says. "I just¡ªI mean . . . Just sort of puts me on the spot, you know?"

    "Oh. Sorry. Just¡ªI didn''t say it, okay? I take it back. I didn''t say anything. In fact, I''m just going to hang up now. I didn''t call. Just . . . uh . . . I guess there are no do-overs in life, are there? Well, anyway, bye."

    "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Braydon says. "Don''t hang up. Things are cool between us, okay?"

    I am silent for several moments, attempting to compose my emotional state and voice. I''m so glad he can''t see me, or he''d see a mess of tears.

    "Okay," I succeed at saying with some dignity.

    "So, listen," Braydon says. "My cousins and I are going to this summer festival tomorrow. Care to join us?"

    I forget to breathe.

    "Alison?"

    "Um," I mumble. "Sure."

 7 - A Friend

    I''m soaring on the wings of a crow, clinging tightly to its soft feathers as the wind rushes at my face and through my hair. Through the clouds, it soars, and I feel almost one with it. I am the tiny girl on its back, and I am the bird.

    I caw as an enemy bird approaches, and then I dive at breathtaking speed to avoid a full on attack. I have barely a moment to recognize what lies below us until we splash down into water. The crow vanishes, and it is just me, a prisoner to the water, perpetually drowning.

    But then a bare-chested Philip swims up to me and takes me into his arms. We kiss, and the pain in my lungs vanish. We sink till my back hits the bottom of the lake. Fish tickle my toes, and light barely reaches my eyes. Far up above me is the surface, a mural of the reality above it. Life above doesn''t seem real. It is just me and Philip.

    We are not in a lake at all. The mural above us is a piece of fine art pinned to the ceiling. The artwork on the wall are all underwater depictions, but the floor beneath us is still sand. He lies over me, caresses my face, runs his hands through my wet hair.

    "Come back to me," he says.

    I open my mouth to say yes, but then Philip is suddenly the crow, pinning me down with his sharp hooks. Other birds fly in through unseen windows. They attack each other, screaming horrible noises. Feathers fly everywhere.

    I drown in a sea of feathers, happy and content.

    "Yes, Philip. I want this."

    "It''s Alice, right?" Braydon''s cousin, Jesse, shouts from across the picnic table.

    I startle and release my left arm from the grip of my nails. I turn toward him slightly.

    "Um . . . Alison," I say and turn my back toward him again.

    The polka music continues to drown out most of the voices here. People dance around the outdoor floor, smiles, and laughter all around. It makes my insides cold. All these people. Why did I come?

    Jesse''s voice surfaces just barely above the music, repeating my name till he gets my attention again. I barely look his way.

    "You were late," he says. "What happened?"

    I blush. I''d been crying and hyperventilating? Took about an hour to calm down? Then I had to reapply my makeup to hide my patheticness? By that time, I was already late and had to convince myself that not coming was an act of avoidance that''d make my anxiety worse in the long run? "Uh¡ªI came in from Madison. Weather''s been horrible, hasn''t it?"

    "Yeah," he says. "Sure has. Storms have been nuts."

    I smile at him because I don''t know what else to say. Then I turn my attention back to the gallop-hopping of mostly old people and children swinging around the dance floor. Everyone''s smiling and laughing. I feel slightly dizzy and like I''m edging toward an out-of-body experience. That''s where your anxiety gets so intense, you feel disconnected from yourself. You become a self-observer and are amazed your limbs still obey your commands.

    I grab my bottle of water and take a quick drink, hoping it''ll help. Then, as I lower my bottle from my lips, I notice a figure standing just outside the shelter watching me. His face is unusually thin, his nose long and beak-like. Beyond that, I only notice the strange lightning design on his black Tee. It looks like a bird made of white light.

    I notice Jesse is still talking to me. "¡ªstudent there?"

    I turn. "Sorry. What?"

    He blinks a few times and frowns.

    "I was just explaining how Braydon and I are students at the UW. Nessa starts in the fall. We''re here in Salk City for the summer months, but maybe we''d see you around campus."

    "Oh."

    He stares at me for a while, and finally adds, "Do you go to the UW as well?"

    "Um, no. Community college for me." I force a smile and shrug.

    He sits back. "Oh. What program are you going for?"

    But I''ve about had it with my anxiety, so I get up. "Um. If you''d excuse me." I speed out of the pavilion, pass through reams of people standing in mud, and take off in a light jog till the noise from the music and crowd feels safely distant.

    I stop at an isolated kiosk of local advertisements and lean my forearm and head against it as I try to take a breath.

    In through the nose, out through the mouth. No hyperventilation means no fainting.

    Surprisingly, it works a little. I open my eyes and see the word ''Baraboo'' spelled out just inches from my nose. Then I take a step back and look at the display.

    Salk City isn''t far from Baraboo. You could ditch this crowd, head to the lake, and maybe he''d be there. Maybe he''d find you there . . . just like he said.

    I close my eyes, turn around, lean my head on the display and groan. "Ugh! Stupid crush. Stupid obsession. Let him go al¡ª"

    "Um, am I interrupting something?"

    I open my eyes. Braydon is standing before me, blushing and giving me an embarrassed sort of smile.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    I lift my head. "How long have you been standing there?"

    He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks onto his heels. "Long enough."

    My cheeks burn. "I wasn''t¡ªI wasn''t talking about you. My crush¡ªI mean . . ." God! What am I saying?

    He keeps rocking and averts his eyes. "It''s okay if you like me."

    "I don''t! I mean! It''s nothing personal¡ª"

    He chuckles. "Would you calm down? I''ve known you''ve liked me since you asked me out."

    My neck feels on fire!

    "I just¡ªI should probably tell you . . ." He leans forward. "I''m . . . uh . . . I''m kind of gay."

    And now a burst of chills rush down my body. Thanks, anxiety. Thanks for still making this about me.

    "Oh," I say. God! Have I no words?

    He rolls on the balls of his feet again and looks away. "And I guess that makes you number four."

    "Number four?"

    He meets my eye. "Forth person I''ve come out to."

    I''m having hot and cold flashes now. Anxiety is so much fun!

    "Oh," I say. "Thanks for telling me." My voice is so monotone it probably sounds insulting.

    He offers his hand. "So? Friends?"

    I stare at his open hand. A part of me wants to argue with him. Friends? Alison doesn''t have friends! She lives her life like she''s perpetually grounded from all forms of social interaction. But another part of me yells that if I don''t take his hand, I''m going to look like a homophobe.

    I take his hand, and for the first time in God knows how long, a little pocket in my mind puts someone in the category of ''friend.'' But, of course, my mind is whirling. I''m already envisioning him rejecting me in the future. "Alison, I''m sorry, but you''ve forced me to be blunt. You are¡ª"

    But, I don''t let go. He feels vulnerable. I feel vulnerable.

    "Yeah," I say. "Friends. I''d like that."

    His smile widens, and in the distance, I notice that strange thin-faced man from earlier watching us. He seems to smile, turns and walks back into the crowd.

    Braydon turns his head toward the shelter briefly. "So, I kind of made a song request for you."

    "Huh?"

    He offers his hand again. "Would you care to dance or . . ."

    "Uh . . . I¡ªI¡ªI''m not really¡ª"

    "Alison," he says. "I don''t bite. Whatever you''ve heard, I''m a pretty nice guy."

    I close my eyes. Don''t make it about you, I tell myself.

    And so I take Braydon''s hand. He pulls me back to the pavilion¡ªto the very middle of the dance floor. And then he''s placing my hands over his shoulders and putting his around my waist. I force myself to breathe, then worry if I just blew bad breath his direction. I''m sweating. Did I put deodorant on? I don''t remember!

    But he doesn''t have any adverse reaction. We stand awkwardly, waiting for the song to end. Then there is a little commotion as the band members switch instruments. The band leader pulls out a guitar and then comes up to the mic.

    "So, we had a little song request," he says. "So, Alison? This one''s for you. ''Bridge Over Troubled Waters.''"

    My eyes widen. Did Braydon just announce to everyone here that I''m depressed?

    The band leader experiments a little with his guitar, adjusts his strings, apologizes once more and finally starts to play.

    No! This needs to stop! Run! Run now!

    But I don''t. My arms feel heavy and my head fuzzy, but we dance anyway. The band leader then nods when the violinist is supposed to start playing and the whole thing gets worse.

    It''s not that it''s a terrible rendition. It is that the song is too deep, too personal. It highlights the pity Braydon has taken on me. Me¡ªthe suicide girl.

    "You okay?" Braydon asks.

    I nod, but it''s a lie.

    The only comforting thought is that of Philip, the memory of that fleeting confidence I experienced in his presence. If only that could happen to me now.

    I look over Braydon''s shoulder to hide the swelling of my eyes, but only meet others gawking at me. And there''s that weird thin-faced guy staring at us again.

    Braydon is silent for a few more turns. Then, he says, "I''m not going to pretend I know what you''re going through. It''s not my business, really. But if it helps, my cousins and I have been praying for you."

    I suck in my bottom lip and breathe in deeply through my nose.

    "I''ve gone through some rough times of my own," he says and then hesitates briefly. "In fact, my brother¡ª"

    But I pull away.

    "I''m sorry," I say.

    And then I''m running out of the pavilion, dodging and bumping into other dancers, squeezing through picnic tables, and ruining a game of horseshoe.

    I head straight for the restrooms, zooming past more people and locking myself into an empty stall. Because I''m not alone in here, I stifle the sound of my crying. It weakens the relief my tears can bring, and my chest vibrates painfully.

    Why do my fears have to rule over me like this? Why is it so hard to fake smiles and at least seem friendly? I''m so sick of being tormented. I''m sick of trying to make a normal life for myself when the fear blocks me from it. Even when I force myself through this torture, what is the benefit?

    And I think of Philip again. A crazy thought. He cured me if only for a few hours. I don''t know how he could have such powers. It''s ludicrous to entertain this notion, and yet I cling to it.

    Please be real. Please be my way out of this mess. I don''t really want to die; I just want the ability to live.

    My phone buzzes from my mini backpack purse and startles me from my thoughts. I pull it out, whip a tear from my eye, and read Braydon''s text.

    Braydon: Are you okay? Where are you? I''m worried.

    I respond back with the only socially acceptable answer.

    Alison: I''m sick. I''m sorry. Going home.

    He accepts the excuse without question, and after I''ve reapplied makeup to hide the redness around my eyes, I dash over to my car, sit in the driver''s seat and think. I''m still tempted to drive out the Devil''s Lake, but for what? Do I really think I can find Philip, have time to really socialize and be back to Madison for dinner? Am I even in the emotional state to do this?

    I pull up the Devil''s Lake website on my phone.

    And there, the words ''Stay and Camp!'' call out to me. My aunt would never approve, but maybe if¡ª

    I pull up my phone contacts and quickly scour through them. There aren''t many, and I barely ever use them. Fear wells up in me as my finger hovers over Brianna''s name. It holds me back, reminds me that Brianna isn''t my friend, that I have no friends, that no one wants me to bother them.

    But I shake my head and text her anyway.

    Alison: Hey Bri. I was wondering if you''d help me out.

 8 - Return to Devils Lake

    My phone chimes again while my head is halfway inside my car''s trunk. I finish shoving the tenting gear in the far back before pulling out my phone and leaning my weight against the bumper.

    Braydon: Great evening for fireworks. You got plans?

    I haven''t heard from Braydon in two weeks. I''m surprised he''s reaching out after what happened.

    I hesitate, giddy with both anxiety and joy. My mind seems to want to squash the joy.

    I''ll ruin this.

    Still, I start to type a reply when Brianna calls me from the front porch.

    "Alison," she says. "The cooler is really a two-person job. Care to help me lift it?"

    I glance up from my phone, momentarily glaring at Mia and her friend, Sophie, who sit on the porch swing sipping iced tea. Of course, she wouldn''t think of asking Mia. It was hard enough convincing her to go to Devil''s Lake with us, plus there''s the risk of her ratting us out to her mom. Asking her to lift a finger could put a permanent hold on the entire trip. Still, you''d think¡ª

    "I can¡ª" Sophie starts.

    But, then Mia says, "Sophie, don''t. Alison needs to learn some independence. If we do too much for her, she won''t grow. After all, this isn''t a vacation. It''s therapy."

    "But¡ª " Sophie mumbles.

    "You can handle it, Alison. Can''t you?"

    "Uh. Yeah, sure."

    I tuck my phone in my purse and head back into the house.

    "Who are you texting, anyway?" Brianna says as we head into the kitchen. "I thought you had no one else to invite."

    If I tell her about Braydon, she''ll never forgive me for going on and on about my lack of friends. Brianna''s agreed to go on this camping trip because she''s turned me into her project. Mia''s going because Brianna doesn''t trust Mia enough to keep her mouth shut while we''re gone.

    I shrug. "No one really," I say. "Just . . . no one."

    Brianna lifts her end of the cooler and gives me a sympathetic smile.

    "Well, we''ll get you meeting some real people. Did you buy the Valerian herb Sophie recommended?"

    I lift my end of the cooler a little shakily.

    "I don''t really know how that''ll react with my medication," I say. "Ju¡ªjust don''t push too much on me, okay?"

    "Hey, don''t do that. You know, you''re going to have to pull your weight on this too, take some real chances. We''re not magicians. This whole thing is useless if all you''re going to be is a wallflower."

    I swallow. "Right."

    Brianna smiles just as we start to move forward with the cooler.

    Just then, the front door opens, and my aunt bursts into the room with an air of mild irritation as she unbuttons her organic cotton vest.

    "My God, you girls are still here? I thought you''d be riding those roller coasters by now."

    She pulls off the work formal garment, eying Mia through the open doorway. No doubt she thinks Mia is to blame for our late start. Next, she''ll suspect me because she knows Mount Olympus has both a dry and wet park. And, yeah, we didn''t tell her the truth. How could we?

    "Check-in isn''t until three, Mom," Brianna says. "What are you doing home so early?"

    Lindsay smiles.

    "Eh, I''m guilty, I know," she says. "Took part of the day off. Thought I''d take advantage of a house devoid of teenagers. But lo, my girls think you can''t have fun in the Dells before check-in."

    "Hi, Ms. Schlender," Sophie says meekly from the doorway.

    "Oh Hi, Sophie, dear."

    "Mom, we haven''t," Brianna starts. "We haven''t quite decided on what we''re going to do yet. We just got the one reservation, and . . ." She doesn''t finish her thought.

    Lindsay then turns her gaze to me.

    "Oh," she says. "Oh, Alison, you''ll do fine." I knew she''d blame me next. "The Dells isn''t all water parks, you know. There are magic shows, tours, horseback riding¡ª"

    "Yeah, Alison," Mia says loudly from the porch swing. "It''s not like we''re going to Devil''s Lake."

    Brianna is suddenly dragging the cooler¡ªand me¡ªout the doorway.

    "Mia!" she says in hushed tones to her sister.

    But then Lindsay is saying, "Oh, God. Where is my head today? Here. Let me help you with that."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    A half-hour later, the four of us are leaving in my little blue Toyota Corolla, its trunk stuffed to its limit with camping gear and four large duffel bags. As we pull out of our neighborhood, Brianna lets out a heavy breath.

    "My God," she says. "I thought Mom was going to figure us out for sure. Mia, what were you thinking? She''d never have let us leave if she found out."

    "We''re not going to the Dells?" Sophie says.

    Mia laughs.

    "No, Alison has this idea that if she camps out at Devil''s Lake all her inner demons will be exorcised."

    "That''s not funny, Mia," Brianna says. "And it wasn''t¡ª"

    "Oh, what''s the problem?" Mia says. "I was just poking fun at how much Mom still babies her. No harm came of it. We''re still all going on this stupid trip, aren''t we?"

    Upon arriving, the vastness of the State Park makes my heart sink. A canopy of trees cast shadows over the car as we weave around Park Rd. and head to the North Shore Visitor''s Center to check in. I realize now my chances of bumping into Philip are slim to none.

    We park in the lot designated for campers and head into the main brown building a full two hours before regular check-in. The back wall contains a green large map of the three campgrounds: Quartzite, Northern Lights, and Ice Age. The nearest one is Quartzite and is walking distance from the lake.

    The Park Ranger, a woman with thick frizzy graying hair, assures us that our particular site is vacant.

    "That''s not usual for a holiday weekend," she says. "But those people were in such a rush to leave, you''d think they had seen a ghost."

    She laughs, but my cousins and I give her only blank stares, and she stops abruptly. I suppose we''re all thinking the same thing. Lindsay would not be happy with us camping at a haunted site.

    Then Mia says, taking the receipt from the middle-aged woman''s hand, "Hmph. Maybe they had."

    Brianna rips the receipt out of Mia''s clutches.

    "Of course, they didn''t," she snaps as she stuffs the receipt into her purse. "There''s no such thing as ghosts."

    We drive up the weaving road to the Quartzite campground. The campground comes into view as we reach the crest of the hill and start a slight descent.

    The entire campground is large, open and spacious, like a golf course surrounded by forest. A few RVs and pop-up trailers are scattered throughout, some decorated with American flags and 4th of July banners.

    We pull into site 43 and start setting up camp. The site backs up to the woods and is a short hike from the restrooms. And while Mia sits at the picnic table with her phone, I help Sophie and Brianna pull out the supplies.

    "Not bad for a last minute reservation, is it?" Brianna says as we haul out the canvas tent.

    "Eh," Mia says. "It''s okay. I still think Mount Olympus would have been more fun."

    Brianna groans.

    "Mia, would you drop the attitude already? We get it. You didn''t want to come. Can''t you just move on and make the most of this trip?"

    And then Mia gets up from the picnic table.

    "Fine!" she says and heads to the back of my car. She pulls out one of the small bags and then heads our way, bag on shoulder.

    "So, I''m heading down to the beach now. Anyone wanting to join me is welcomed."

    I stare at her, suddenly frozen in fear. Right. A trip to Devil''s Lake would mean . . . swimming.

    "Mia," Brianna says. "We''re still setting up camp. We can -"

    "Why wait?" her younger sister says. "We can set up camp later. Heck, maybe we can find some cute guys and have them do the work for us."

    Brianna lets out a heavy sigh."You''re terrible, Mia."

    Mia giggles. "I know."

    "Fine, whatever," Brianna says, and then she looks toward Sophie in me. "That okay with you two?"

    I''m too frozen with fear to answer. Sophie says, "Sure, I''m down with that."

    And then the girls are getting up, gathering their thing and walking toward the road.

    Somehow, I''m finally able to squeak out, "I''ll stay here."

    The girls stop and look at me, each with her own expression of judgment in her eye. Mia''s got an ''I''m not surprised but seriously?'' look on her face. Sophie looks as if it''s finally dawning on her why my cousins are always so annoyed with me. Brianna alone takes me aside.

    "Alison, this¡ª"

    "I just can''t go down there," I say, knowing I''m visibly shivering. I hope is sways her even though it''s not intentional. "Not yet. Maybe later. After I''ve -"

    "It''s not going to get easier," she says.

    "It will," I snap, tears almost bursting from my sockets. "It has to. I just - I need to take baby steps, okay?" And I need to find Philip.

    As the first tears start their way down my cheeks, she says, "I don''t know how I feel about just leaving you by yourself."

    I force a laugh. God, I sound insane!

    "What''s going to happen?" I say. "Someone going to snatch me away so that no one ever hears from me again? I''m 18, not 8."

    She hesitates.

    "Fine," she finally says. "Stay this time, but make sure it doesn''t become a pattern."

    Okay, Mom, I want to say, but instead, just say, "Fine. I can do that."

    Brianna nods, and then the girls head off together, but not without Brianna turning around and saying loudly, "And Alison, there was no reason to cry about it. You got your way."

    Emotions bubble deep within me as they walk out of sight, and then I''m racing to the nearby woods and secluding myself in the green canopy of trees and underbrush. When I feel assured no one can see me, I lean my hand against a tree for support and let out a few audible whimpers.

    God! What was I thinking? Did I really think coming here would be easy? My cousins would willingly do their own thing while I happily went on my hunt for Philip? I won''t find him. Even if I do, it''s foolish to think he has powers.

    And yet my mind keeps clinging to the idea of him, mentally begging him just to show up.

    When I''m through with the crazy self-talk, I head to the restrooms to clean up my face and reapply makeup. Then I busy my mind with the task of pitching the tent. How hard can it be, right?

    The first fifteen minutes I spend looking for instructions. When I can''t find them, I try my phone, but the signal is too weak for the internet to move at any more than a snail''s pace. Finally, I just wing it.

    It''s as I''m hammering the first stake into the ground that I''m startled by a familiar voice.

    "Need a hand?" he says.

    I startle, hit my thumb with the hammer and fall backward onto my elbows.

    The rays of the sun slightly obscure my vision as he walks into view, but there he is, looking exactly the way I remember him. Philip Dussault stands above me, the sunlight glowing around his dark hair and laughter on his lips.

    He found me.

 9 - His Power

    "You know, I think that''s one of those Instant Tents," Philip says. "You have to telescope out the poles and get the tent in a full upright position before staking it to the ground. You okay?"

    I nod stupidly.

    I''m not sure what to do. I have had so many dreams about him that part of me wants to just run into his arms. The more reserved part¡ªthe smarter part¡ªcautions me from doing so. Instead, I remain on the ground, nursing my thumb in my mouth. I forget to even speak.

    He gestures toward the foot of my car.

    "You got ice in that cooler?"

    He doesn''t wait for an answer¡ªjust props the lid open, digs around and eventually brings a can of root beer to me.

    "Should be cold enough," Philip says. "Why don''t we go sit down at the picnic table. It''ll be easier."

    "Okay."

    And then he''s pulling me up from the ground, guiding me over to the bench and holding the can over my sore thumb. Each point of contact makes my skin tingle and my heart thump. I just know I''m going to make a fool of myself.

    "Thanks," I say.

    "De rien."

    My arms tremble slightly, but he doesn''t appear to notice. I focus on breathing through my nose to calm myself a little, but when I glance up at him my efforts prove worthless. I pray I don''t faint in front of him.

    Finally, I say¡ªjust to say something, "It''s Philip, right?"

    He chuckles. God, he has a great laugh.

    Stop it, Alison. Don''t overreact. You''ll freak him out.

    "It''s good to see you remember my name," he says.

    "Yeah. Me too," I say, not fully aware of what I''m even trying to say.

    I look up at his smiling lips, so close to mine, so alive and real. If I moved but a few inches, I could ¨C

    "So, how does it feel?"

    "What?"

    I don''t think. I look up at his eyes. Stupid decision.

    "Your thumb," he says.

    "Huh?"

    "You injured it."

    There''s a strange movement of discoloration in his irises, and then my head throbs with a short but intense migraine. It passes through my head, down my neck and out to my palms. I blink, and it is gone. My shoulders relax, and I exhale.

    So, it was him who calmed me before.

    I smile but say nothing about it. It still sounds so ridiculous to say out loud.

    "Oh, it''s fine," I say. "I''m fine."

    His grin rises into his eyes before he removes the cold can off my thumb. He pops the tab and takes one long gulp before setting it on the table beside me.

    "Good," he says. "So, how about we get this tent up?"

    With Philip around, putting up the tent isn''t just easy, it''s fun.

    He scoots behind me, brushing up against me briefly as he moves to the other end of the tent. My heart flutters.

    "So," I say. "How come you never called?"

    He chuckles a little.

    "Uh . . . yeah . . . that," he says and snaps his pole into place. "That''s . . . uh. You wan''na start extending out the legs on your side? I''ve got it here."

    "Yeah, sure," I say. "Like this, right?"

    He smiles, and my insides bubble.

    "You got it."

    "So, did you lose it?"

    He walks around the tent, pulling at the legs and ensuring everything is tight and secure. He answers with his back toward me.

    "Um . . . not exactly," he says. "So who did you come with?"

    "Huh?"

    He looks at me.

    "You''re not going to tell me you''re camping alone in this giant tent, are you?"

    I now wish I were.

    "Oh, no," I say. "It''s just me and my cousins . . . Oh! And one of Mia''s friends. I''m sure they''ll be happy to meet you. Well, shocked, really."

    And I imagine their faces when they realize I''m with such a hot guy. Or wait. I''m jumping ahead of myself. What''s wrong with me? Just because we''ve flirted doesn''t make us a couple. It doesn''t even mean he likes me. He could just be a big flirt.

    He squats down to pick up the stakes and looks at me again.

    "Mia''s here?"

    "Uh, Yeah."

    He raises his eyebrows before moving to the corner of the tent and hammering in the first stake.

    "That could be trouble," he says.

    My impulse is to agree with him, but I''m caught off guard by his statement.

    "You know Mia?" I say.

    He smiles.

    "She''s your cousin. Of course, I know her."

    He moves to the next corner, and I decide to pull the sleeping mats from the trunk.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    "But¡ª"

    "She was in Baraboo last fall," he says. "I mean, I didn''t recognize her at first, but it was her."

    "Is that where she went?"

    "What do you mean?"

    I stop myself before blowing up the first mat.

    "Oh, just that she disappeared for two months," I say. "When she turned up, no one told me what had happened."

    "Huh."

    "Did you talk to her?"

    He chuckles.

    "Uh . . . not really," he says.

    "Not really?"

    He smiles again, his eyes turning to the side as if he''s remembering something funny.

    "They were screwing around over near the Man Mound," he says. "Pretty sure they confused it for an Indian cemetery. So I decided to have a laugh and scare them."

    My lips slip from the valve as a laugh escapes my mouth.

    "Did it work?"

    "Oh yeah. I''m very good at frightening people."

    The campsite is near-perfect, the picnic table draped in a red, white and blue table cloth, held down neatly in the corner by stones with the cooler sitting just below. A plastic cup sits in the center anchored down by stones and filled with various wild flowers¡ªPhilip''s idea.

    Alone and cocooned in the tent with the windows still zipped shut, we finish laying out the sleeping bags. Then, Philip turns toward me.

    "So, I have something I''ve been meaning to show you," he says.

    I sit down on the sleeping mat across from him, and he pulls something small, flat and rectangular out of his pocket. He glances at it for awhile, smoothing out the folds between his fingers before handing the photo to me.

    "I would have shown you last time," he says. "But well . . . I usually prefer to keep it in its frame."

    I look down at the picture, and a younger and happier version of myself smiles back up at me. I am wearing a lavender sun-dress and have a white carnation in my hair. Next to me is a boy, maybe 13-years-old, with one arm around my shoulder and the other extending out to take the selfie.

    His dark hair is much shorter, though with a slight wave under the ends. We appear to be sitting on a large wooden canopy bed. It looks antique, but I have no idea where the photo was taken. The walls in the background are gray and unfamiliar, as is the dress I was wearing, the photo and the entire situation.

    "When was this taken?" I ask.

    "Just before . . ." But he trails off, and we make eye contact. It is enough said, and I look back down at the photo.

    "So I was 11," I say mostly to myself. "God, I look so happy."

    He moves to sit beside me, and I''m aware of the heat radiating from his shoulder.

    "You were," he says.

    Then I peer over at him, considering him for a moment.

    "And this boy in the picture. I take it, that''s you?"

    He smiles.

    "Oui."

    And the urge to lean in and kiss him tempts me.

    But I say, "How did you know to bring this photo?"

    He averts his eyes.

    "I sort of knew you''d be here," he says.

    "Really," I say.

    "Yeah."

    "Well, what did you do? Hack into the State Park''s reservation database?"

    He bites his bottom lip for a moment and pushes some hair behind his ear.

    "Well, I did something," he says.

    "Something?" I laugh.

    He looks at me and gives a flirtatious smirk.

    "Oh, Alison. You''re wanting me to fill you in on all my secrets already?" he says. "Where''s the fun in that?"

    He nudges me with his elbow, and I chuckle. I don''t know when the last time was that I felt this happy. Oh, wait. I do. It was the last time I saw him.

    "Don''t worry," he says. "I promise you once I take you down to my secret lair, I''ll tell you everything. But right now¡ª"

    "Secret lair?"

    "Oh! Did I say secret lair? What I meant was¡ª"

    But he cuts himself off, and his head turns abruptly.

    "Someone''s coming," he says.

    And indeed, I can hear people outside as well. I can''t make out their words, but I recognize the voices.

    "Sounds like my cousins," I say, and then I''m getting up from the mat.

    Philip, however, stays where he is.

    "Aren''t you coming to meet them?" I say.

    There is a pause, but then he smiles, nodding his head slightly. He looks at me.

    "You go ahead," he says. "I''ve got a plan."

    I laugh. "Okay . . ."

    And then he''s standing up, untying the dividing wall between the two rooms of the tent.

    "Don''t mention me, though," he says. "At least not until I come out. I''d like to get the full reaction when I make my grand entrance."

    My cheeks hurt from all the smiling.

    "What are you going to do?"

    He gives an evil grin.

    "You''ll see," he says and then starts zipping the dividing wall closed.

    I stand there motionless, wondering what to expect.

    My cousin''s voices draw closer.

    "Oh my God," I hear Brianna say. "Did she do all this by herself?"

    "Looks like we won''t need your muscle, after all, guys," Mia says with a giggle.

    It dawns on me that Philip might step out partially undressed, but I have no time to address the issue as I hear Brianna from outside of the tent say, "Alison, are you hiding in there? You''ll have to excuse her, she''s rather¡ª"

    I unzip the tent and slip out feeling a mixture of confidence, giddiness, and guilt, giving my mannerisms the air of embarrassment.

    "Hi," I say, breathlessly, and then notice the four young guys standing behind my cousins and Sophie. Two look to be about Sophie and Mia''s age, while the other two look closer to Brianna and my age. I wonder if this is a coincidence.

    Brianna introduces the guys, but I have trouble comprehending their names. The one name that sticks out is that of the largest guy in the group. He is what people would politely call ''big boned'' ¨C not exactly buff or fat, but a mixture of the two, with a farmer''s tan not hidden by his tank top. His name is Blake, and his smile rises when I look his way.

    No. Probably not a coincidence. My cousins act like you can''t do anything without coupling up. I don''t get it.

    "Hi," he says and twiddles his fingers up in the air.

    After an awkward moment of silence, Brianna shoves me in Blake''s direction.

    "Well, don''t be shy," she laughs a little to forcefully. "Go say ''hi.''"

    Blake and I step the short distance to the picnic table while the rest of the group discusses how to kill time till dinner, and I watch the tent, waiting for Philip''s moment. But though the partially unzipped opening of the tent wavers in the breeze, nothing happens.

    What''s he doing in there?

    "So, you''re cousins. They tell me you''re starting college in the fall," he says.

    "Uh huh," I say.

    "So like," he says. "What you planning on majoring in?"

    "Just an Associate''s in Paralegal."

    I am starting to wonder if he''s going to step out nude . . . or worse. But what could be worse?

    "Oh yeah?" Blake says. "You have an interest in law?"

    I have the urge to stop Philip from whatever he''s about to do when Sophie says, "Hey, Alison? Are the duffel bags in the tent?"

    She steps inside the tent before I''m able to reach her. I freeze in place, waiting for the scream, the laughter, for the ''Oh my God.''

    "Wow!" Sophie says from inside the tent, sounding not only surprised but pleased.

    I can''t resist. I storm into the tent, ready to explain to Sophie that it''s only a joke. I''ve never been with a guy. I''ve never even kissed a guy. Philip is just ¨C

    But Sophie is alone in the tent. The dividing wall is fully open and Sophie turns and says, "Brianna, seriously. Like, the only thing missing is little chocolates on the pillows. Alison really outdid herself."

 10 - Rescued by Nothing

    The sun slips behind the towering bluffs a half-hour before true sundown, giving the warm evening a dim orange glow. The eight of us walk down the path that will take us to the beach, a canopy of leaves shadowing our way. The boys carry the flashlights, but as of yet, we''ve had no need to use them, and I linger a little behind as the path starts to descend the slope.

    It''s been four hours since Philip disappeared, and while I''ve been distracted and a little standoffish, the effects of his presence have been lingering.

    Between dinner and now, I''ve been doing okay, listening to the others joke, laughing at the appropriate times, asking questions of Blake to encourage him to keep talking. But now the sense of peace and confidence is gone, and though it''s gradually been fading for hours, its complete absence feels like an abrupt shock to my system.

    The girls laugh playfully as the boys crack dirty jokes and descend down the slope, and I''m considering going back. I know where this path leads, and I don''t want to see the lake right now. Maybe later. Maybe when Philip returns, and¡ª

    How do I know he''s going to return? Maybe he saw Blake and¡ª

    Blake turns to me, shining the flashlight briefly in my face.

    "Ya'' doing okay?"

    "Huh? Yeah. Fine."

    Then the light of his flashlight descends upon what I''ve been standing beside.

    "Huh," he says. "It''s a lynx."

    "A lynx?"

    I look down and we stand before an Indian mound, a slightly raised portion of earth that extends out into the trees, nearing the edge of the slope.

    He squats down beside the plague that marks the mound.

    "That''s what this mound is of," he says. "It''s a lynx. ''Indian effigy mound. Length 82 feet. Surveyed by A.S. Stout, April 29, 1905.''" He stands back up. "Pretty Cool."

    Brianna suddenly has a flashlight and is shining it our way.

    "You two coming?" she says, impatiently.

    Blake turns to catch up with the group, but I hesitate.

    "I¡ªI don''t know, Brianna," I say. "I''m not really feeling¡ª"

    "Are you sick?"

    I wrap my arms around myself, feeling my body begin to shiver.

    "I don''t know. It might have been a better idea had we driven into Baraboo for the fireworks," I say. "The last time I¡ª"

    "Well, it''s kind of late to speak up now," she says. "You should have said something about it when we were making plans an hour ago."

    "I know. I just¡ªCan I just sit this one out?"

    Her eyebrows narrow, but then, Blake says, "I''ll stay with her."

    Brianna hesitates, frowning at the both of us.

    "That''s very nice of you, Blake, but I''d rather we all stick together," she says.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    "Look, we''ll be right behind you," he says. "We''ll probably even¡ªwe''ll join you later. We''ll just be doing our own thing for awhile. How ''bout it?"

    She takes a moment to consider.

    "Come on," he says. "You can trust us."

    "Hmm," she says. "Fine, but call when you''re ready to meet up. You''ve got my number, Alison?"

    "Yeah."

    "Good."

    She gives Blake one more look before jogging down the wooden stairway to catch up with the others.

    When she''s out of sight, Blake turns to me with a smile and says, "So now that we''re alone, what d''you wan''na do?"

    I turn back on the path, peering over at the yellow ''nature center'' building on the other side of the park road.

    "We can walk the road," I say. "It''ll eventually take us to the beach."

    "Yeah. Cool. Okay."

    For much of the walk, I remain silent, my insides slowly freezing as I half-listen to Blake fill the silence with his voice. He doesn''t seem to mind. And when I lead him off the road and into the now darkened picnic area, he merely rushes to my side with the flashlight.

    He doesn''t ask me where I''m going or why I''m wanting to wander off into the dark, but he does stop speaking. If he were to ask me, I''d probably have to tell him that I''m hiding. It''s one of the many odd things I do when I''m seriously anxious, whether I''m breaking into the school''s storage closet for lunch, sealing myself off in my own closet at home or placing a towel over my head. I suppose it''s a variation of hiding under the sheets, finding an artificial sense of safety in the dark, confined seclusion.

    I finally stop in my tracks when the lake comes up into full view, the waters a shining gray with everything around it a dark shade of black¡ªthe hills, the plants, Blake, my own body.

    "Nice view," Blake says. "Shall we sit and enjoy?"

    I sit but say nothing. My eyes are locked onto the lake, hypnotized by it. I lose my sense of time, my sense of self, and this offers me a strange disconnected relief.

    I am no longer aware of what Blake is doing. I''m not aware of the moment Blake turns off the flashlight or the moment he scoots closer to me. I feel only a slight movement of my hair. As the gray waters become their own shade of black, with only the moonlight giving off a shining rippling effect, I am aware of warm breath on my neck.

    I turn and glance at the shadowy figure beside me.

    "What are you doing?"

    "Nothing," Blake says, though I can hear the smile in his voice.

    Then, before I have a chance to think, his hand is on my shoulder pushing me down. I feel him climb on top of me, the breath against my neck again, the rough chap lips running across my collarbone.

    I try to get my bearings, to register what is happening, what I should do, but before I have a chance, Blake is hollering in my ear and pulls off of me quickly.

    I sit up, rubbing my ear, and while its hard to make out detail, I can see Blake is hunched over before me, holding himself between his legs.

    He spits out a curse word.

    "You okay?"

    "Oh, yeah, terrific," he spits out. "Oh God."

    "But, I didn''t¡ª" I start.

    And then I''m not sure what I see, but it looks like Blake''s chin rises up in one drastic motion. There''s a little lift to his body before he falls backward, landing with a soft thud.

    He swears again.

    "What the hell, Alison. You lead me on and then . . ." But then he''s groveling forward in pain.

    "I¡ª"

    And then there is a strange, hollow clicking noise coming from one of the trees behind us. It ends with one long yap.

    Blake sits up, still holding his hands protectively over himself.

    "What the hell is that?"

    I look over in the sound''s direction, but can''t make anything out.

    "I think it''s a crow," I say.

    I grab the flashlight and switch it on.

    "A crow?" he says. "I''ve never heard a crow make that sort of sound before."

    "I have."

    I flash the light into the trees, and not one but two crows howl out an angry shriek.

    "Okay," Blake says. "Well, I''m done here. Have fun with your crows."

    And then he runs off¡ªwell, hobbles, really¡ªleaving me alone in the dark. At least he left me the flashlight.

    The birds fly off in his direction but fade into the shadow of the building where the dance is being held.

    I try leaving Brianna a text message, but the signal down here is too weak. I suppose she''ll just have to forgive me for not meeting up with them.

 11 - Him Again

    "She totally ditched us." These are the first words I hear in the morning outside the door to the showers. My hand hovers over the door handle, but I stop.

    "Brianna, I''m sure she ¨C "

    "You can''t deny it. She promised. And now?"

    "Now, she''ll ditch us again," Mia says. "So what?"

    I back away from the door ¨C from the entire gray building ¨C and try to catch my breath.

    You should have texted her when you got back to the site. Now, it''s too late.

    I pace in the direction of the other showers. It''s a longer walk but at least it''ll give me time to think. Then, I decide to turn back on my phone. Maybe she texted me. Maybe some context will calm me down.

    I scroll through my notifications.

    Braydon texted me?

    But I''m already onto the next texts.

    And that''s it for me. I don''t read the rest. Tears well up in my eyes. I forget where I''m going. My only concern is to ¨C

    "Alison ¨C "

    I gasp and lose my footing. Hands quickly grip my forearms, and rather than falling onto my knees, I fall into some guy''s chest.

    "Hey, hey, hey," he says. "Calm down. Calm down. It''s me."

    Oh, God! Philip! Why does he have to see me like this?

    "What''s wrong?" He says. "What happened?"

    "Nothing. It''s nothing. I need to shower."

    The pain doesn''t come from his eyes this time but from his hands. It travels up my arms and spreads the calm throughout me as he sets me back on my feet.

    I look up into his eyes with shock, and the black tendrils in his eyes rush away.

    "Alison?"

    "I''m fine," I say, breathlessly. "I''m fine. It ¨C it''s nothing."

    His grip eases on my forearms, and then I realize I''m in my summer Pjs, and the material is . . . Well, the shorts have cartoon dragons on them, and the top is just as childish. I readjust my bag on my arm as I blush and look away.

    "This has nothing to do with me, does it?" he says.

    I snap to him. "What?"

    "Nevermind," he says quickly. "I just thought maybe you were upset, but I guess ¨C"

    "Wait," I say. "Yes, I am! You disappeared."

    He takes step back and breathes in deeply, like he regrets saying something.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    "I mean, I don''t even know how you left. You were in the tent one minute and the next you were gone."

    He crosses his arms and laughs. "What are you suggesting? I just evaporated and popped somewhere else?"

    "Well, no. But ¨C"

    "What can I say? I left. I''m sorry."

    I consider him a moment. It does sound crazy to suggest he literally disappeared, but then so does the idea that he''s controlling my anxieties.

    At least he''s back. You can deal with your potential insanity later. Right now, just don''t scare him away.

    "But why? Why did you leave?"

    His smile turns soft, but then he says, "Do you want to tell me why you were crying just a minute ago?"

    "I ¨C no." How can I tell him? If I put it into words, I''ll just sound melodramatic.

    "Well, then," he says. "I guess we''re both in a position to speculate."

    "But ¨C "

    "So." He looks down briefly and grins. "I thought maybe you and I could go hiking up the East Bluff today."

    "Huh?"

    "We could have lunch up top. We''ll have to leave no later than 11, but I know a pretty scenic spot, one that doesn''t get cluttered with tourists. Would you join me?"

    "I ¨C "

    But he invades my space, and my heart jitters. I''m aware of how thin my pajama''s top is and feel exposed.

    "Just say yes," he says. "It''ll be quicker."

    I swallow. "Uh . . . Yeah. Sure. Sounds like fun."

    His smile widens.

    "Okay then. We''ll call it a date."

    A date. I''m going on a date? Oh my God!

    "So, I''ll let you shower ¨C " But then he''s peering over my shoulder. "Or maybe not. Looks like someone wants to talk to you. But we''ll meet up later." And then he starts to walk backward away from me. "11:00. Just outside the Learning Center."

    And then he takes off running and disappears behind a camper before someone else is tapping me on the shoulder. I turn around with a startle.

    "Oh! Sorry, Alison," Sophie says. "But Brianna wants to talk with you."

    The girls and I sit at the picnic table at our campsite, the two younger ones on either side of Brianna.

    "So you want to go to the waterpark," I say. It means they won''t meet Philip with me this afternoon, but that''s fine. He did call it a date.

    "What I''m saying is the guys'' have two extra passes," Brianna says. "We thought we''d pool our money for the other two."

    "Why two?"

    Brianna looks at me like I''m stupid. "Because there are four of us? Why do you think?"

    "But I can''t, Bri. You know I can''t. Noah''s Ark doesn''t have a dry park, and anyway ¨C "

    Brianna lowers her head and sighs. "You said you wouldn''t do this."

    "Do what?"

    "You realize we had plans this weekend, plans we canceled for you. I thought confronting your fears was important to you."

    "Yeah, well, I sorta agreed to go hiking with someone today."

    "You''re going hiking with someone."

    "Yeah."

    "With who?"

    I open my mouth, but somehow can''t find my voice. Finally, I just say, "A guy."

    "Oh, give me a break, Alison. A guy? Really? You do realize we''ve shared the same room since ¨C "

    "Wait. You met a guy?" Mia says.

    I feel myself blush and shyly say, "Um. Yeah. I guess."

    "Way to go, Alison! " Mia starts.

    But Brianna interrupts and says, "Does this guy have a name?"

    I open my mouth. I can''t say it. Why can''t I say it?

    "Yeah," I say.

    "Invite him to dinner," Mia says. "The guys are making tacos, but there should be enough."

    But Brianna gets impatient. "Okay. What is it?"

    "Um . . . Philip," I finally force out, but now that I''ve said it, it feels easier. "Philip Dussault. We were actually childhood friends."

    Brianna folds her arms. "Oh, I remember him."

    "You ¨C you do?"

    She raises an eyebrow. "Do you have a problem with that, Alison?"

    "No, I just . . . I was sort of taking his word on it, because I can''t seem to remember him at all."

    "Well, you know what?" she says. "I think I like Mia''s suggestion. Invite him to dinner. Do you think he''ll come?"

    "I can ask."

    "You do that."

 12 - Confession

    Up this high, the entire lake is in view. Bright green trees coat the landscape. Tiny people kayak down below, and Philip and I sit on the cliff''s edge, eating ham sandwiches, fresh fruit, and chips.

    And here we are again. Here I am, sitting casually on a cliff side, laughing at Philip''s jokes, talking about our childhood ¨C feeling blissfully confident.

    And though I remember nothing of him, the details he gives of our childhood add to the sense of authenticity. He remembers the grape juice I spilled in my bedroom, that I changed the layout of my room and successfully hid the stain from my mother for a year. He remembers the names of my childhood toys, and my secret hiding spot in the barn.

    I shake my head at him, and smile. "I can''t figure out why I don''t remember you."

    He leans back onto his elbow. "Well, maybe you do. Maybe it''s just buried in your subconscious, bubbling up here and there."

    I smile. "I don''t seem to be experiencing any bubbles."

    "No?" he says. "Well, tell me this. What brought you to the lake?"

    I blush a little, closing my eyes as I silently laugh. "You weren''t calling."

    "I mean before," he says. "In June."

    I try not to react too suddenly, but my smile is lost. Do I really have to answer this question?

    Philip tilts his head a little, and I feel a tug that says, It''s okay. You''re safe.

    "Oh, come on," he says. "It can''t be that hard of a question to answer."

    But it is. How can I tell him about my suicidal preoccupation? He''ll run. He''ll run for the hills.

    Philip sits back up, eyes wide. "Alison?"

    Again, there is that pull, only this time it brings a warmth of safety. And there''s a slight rippling of darkness in his irises. The moment I notice it, he averts his gaze, and my mind tells me it''s nothing.

    A cloud passes over the sun, dimming our surroundings. It seems appropriate. His question has put a damper on things.

    Just tell me, my mind says as if he were the one speaking to me.

    I set my sandwich down and hug my knees. My eyes land on the beach down below, on about where I entered the lake. I follow the path with my eyes and then peer up at the rocks where I''d first seen Philip watching me.

    I breathe.

    "I was going to kill myself," I say, and a chill sweeps over me.

    His response is so quiet, it''s almost inaudible. "What?"

    I swallow. "I mean, I wasn''t quite sure if I''d go through with it. I wasn''t even sure that''s what I wanted, but I''ve been depressed a very long time. Truth be told, I have no friends. My cousins barely tolerate me. My aunt is just aching to get rid of me."

    "I''m sure it''s not that bad," Philip says.

    And I look at him. "How would you know?"

    He says nothing.

    I turn my gaze back to the lake. "There was a part of me that thought entering the lake might cure me. I''d face my fears head on. Here''s the lake I nearly died in. Maybe if I stood there long enough and nothing bad happened, the fear would go away."The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    A drop of rain lands on my arm, and I stare at it. There isn''t the slightest hint of anxiety within me right now. I''m completely calm.

    I look up at Philip. "Maybe it sort of has, though I don''t think it''s the lake."

    But he turns his head toward the lake and rests his chin on his knee.

    I rub the drop of rain off my arm and breathe in. I can''t believe I just hinted at what I suspect.

    "Suicide," Philip says. "It''s not friendly. It offers no real solutions."

    I blink several times. No one has ever said anything quite like that to me before.

    He looks at me again, still resting his chin on his knee. "I''m sorry you''ve suffered so much. I wish . . ." But he doesn''t finish, and my insides insist I tell him more.

    "Well, it was sort of Mia''s idea," I say.

    "Mia." His voice sounds low and somber, quiet.

    "She said to me one night," I start. "She asked me why I hadn''t done it yet. I mean, I''d thought about it. Pills, knives ¨C something that would allow me to doze off and never wake up. But Mia ¨C she said, ''Just walk into that lake and get it over with.'' And there was something poetic about it."

    Thunder rumbles in the distance, and we turn our gaze to the hills. Dark clouds gather just over the horizon, past the west bluff.

    And Philip says in a low voice, "We should get going before we get caught in a downpour."

    We are silent most of the walk back. The sky continues to gray, and a light drizzle of rain wets our faces.

    Philip seems deep in thought, but as we reach the Visitor''s Center and the path that leads to the lynx mound and the campground, he turns toward me.

    "Do you think you can find your way back from here?" he says.

    I stop and turn around. "You''re leaving?"

    He hesitates. "I . . . I realized I have to be somewhere," he says and abruptly adds. "Soon."

    "Oh," I say and frown.

    And then he waits. We stand facing each other, the line of a parking space between us.

    "So, you can find your way back okay?" he says.

    I squint my eyes shut, trying to digest what''s happening. I shouldn''t have told him. I shouldn''t have told him. Why did I tell him?

    He touches my chin briefly. "Chin up, Alison. You''ll be alright."

    I look into his eyes and though he keeps staring at me, nothing happens. He looks sad, and my eyes well up a little.

    "Well," he says. "Goodbye."

    He doesn''t wait for me to say anything. He just walks away.

    "Wait," I say, and he stops and turns around.

    "Dinner," I spit out. "My cousins wanted me to invite you to dinner. Can you make it?" Please say yes. Please say yes.

    "You told them about me?"

    "Well, yeah."

    "Huh." He looks off to the side and seems to consider. "Well, that could complicate things."

    "What?"

    He looks at me, and a light breeze passes over us, playing with his hair and the ends of his shirt.

    "You really want," he says. "I mean . . . Wow. You really want to see me again."

    Emotions crash within me, but all I do is stare at him blankly.

    He sighs and looks off to the side again. "Find some time alone," he says. "I''ll be there, but don''t mention me anymore to your cousins."

    Now, I''m angry. "What am I supposed to do? Pretend you don''t exist?"

    He shakes his head and shrugs. "I suppose you can do what you want."

    But I continue, "So, what? You''re supposed to stay a secret? Is that why you disappeared yesterday?"

    "Alison ¨C "

    "No! I want to know what''s going on."

    But there''s a rumble of thunder in the distance. The rain starts to pour down hard on us. We run over to the Visitor''s Center and shield ourselves with the overhanging roof.

    In a moment, his arms are around me. I get a close up view of his shoulder, the white material sticking to his skin. And then he pulls away and looks into my eyes.

    "I have to go now," he says.

    And then he runs off into the rain which pours down so hard he disappears into a blur of colors.

 13 - All in Your Head

    "He''s got a girlfriend," Mia says.

    She sits across from me in one of the four camp chairs. Sophie quickly joins us with a plate full of tacos and corn on the cob.

    "I hate to say it," she says. "But I think she''s right. It''s either that or something worse."

    "Oooh! Like the plot of a thriller?" Theresa is the obnoxious blond sitting on the tarp with Blake. She looks about sixteen but has the maturity of a child high on sugar.

    "He waits till you''re all alone," she says. "And then¡ªattack!"

    She feigns attacking Blake with her claws and giggles loudly as she collapses onto his lap. Blake smiles a little too widely for my liking, and Brianna sighs loudly from the picnic table.

    "You know, she was alone with him this whole afternoon," Brianna says. She and a couple of the younger boys are preparing the tacos. "Unless¡ª"

    "Hey, watch it!" One of the younger boys says.

    Mia leans forward, looking past my shoulder and rolls her eyes.

    "God, Bri. That''s like the third shell you''ve broken," she says, then she leans back in her chair and laughs. She looks at Sophie. "Maybe someone else needs a little herbal¡ª"

    "Shut up, Mia!" Bri says.

    I tap Mia on the knee to regain her attention.

    "Couldn''t it be something else?" I say. "Something more innocent?"

    "Like what?"

    "Like maybe I said something I shouldn''t have said. Maybe I scared him away."

    Mia raises her eyebrows, and for a moment I think I almost see pity in her eyes.

    "Look, I told you. He''s got a girlfriend. Case closed."

    "But what if he doesn''t?"

    Mia leans forward and pats my knee, "Then he''s a jerk who doesn''t deserve your time."

    But Blake lets out a snort beside us. "Or he''s protecting his balls."

    Then Brianna says, "Blake could you come over here?"

    I catch him rolling his eyes, but he gets up and follows Brianna to the edge of the campsite.

    "Look," Sophie says. "Maybe you could call him later and¡ª"

    I shake my head. "I don''t have his number."

    "Oh."

    "Yep. Girlfriend," Mia says.

    Sophie shakes my knee and gives me her own look of sympathy. "I''m sorry."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    And then Blake storms through, cursing under his breath as he picks up his belongings on the tarp. Brianna follows closely behind.

    "I''m sorry, Blake," she says. "I just¡ª"

    But he points a finger at her and says, "It''s none of your goddamn business. Just because your cousin is a . . ." He stops short and glances at everyone. "It doesn''t matter. I''ve had enough here. Care to hang out in my parents'' camper, Theresa?"

    "Oh," she says, and her chipper expression falters for only a brief second. "But aren''t your parents there? Maybe we should go to my parents'' camper instead."

    "Sounds great," Blake grumbles, and as they leave, Brianna looks at me and lets off an angry huff.

    The sun sinks in the sky as streaking clouds drift over it, and the campsite dims to near darkness. Again, the effects of Philip''s presence wear off. I try not to think too hard about anything that will upset me, but the murmur of everyone''s voices unnerves me. Bits and pieces of conversation reach my ear, but I comprehend little of it.

    I want to hide and cry and just deal with my emotions in private. Did Philip really reject me because I''m suicidal? Is depression that much of a turn-off? Can no one want me until I''m happy?

    I wrap my arms around myself, close my eyes, and imagine how this night might have turned out had Philip come. But the fantasy keeps getting interrupted by visions of Philip making out with another girl. For some reason, I keep picturing Theresa. It makes me so mad.

    Then, Brianna says out of nowhere, "It''s true, isn''t it, Alison?"

    I open my eyes. Brianna is sitting on the ground on the far side of the camp fire with a red blanket over her knees. Caden sits behind her in one of the camp chairs, massaging her shoulders.

    "What?"

    She pops a popcorn kernel in her mouth.

    "Your imaginary friend," she says. "His name was Philip . . . or well, Phil, but same difference."

    I blink, stunned. Everyone is staring at me.

    "That''s what your mom told me," Brianna continues.

    "Bri, her mom is dead," Mia hisses, but the older cousin just rolls her eyes.

    I shake my head. "What are you talking about?"

    "Philip, your imaginary friend? The boy you wanted me to meet when we were little? You said he lived in your parents'' barn. Don''t you remember? You nearly had me freeze to death waiting for him. And then there were those rumors about the barn being haunted. Come on. You played a mean joke. You really forgot?"

    "I don''t . . ." But I feel the blood drain from my face and become hyper-aware of my own breathing. And the sky seems to drastically darken like it''s trying to invade and conquer the light of the campfire.

    I wrap my arms around myself and shiver.

    Brianna sighs, and then she is before me, handing me a blanket as if it were a peace offering.

    "Alison, just admit it. You were making Philip up. You tried to come up with some new excuse to ditch everyone. All because you''re afraid of water."

    For a moment, my breath hangs mid-chest. My eyes start to burn and swell. Everyone seems to be judging me, condemning me.

    I hiccup out a breath, and then I''m running. Sophie shouts my name. Brianna says, "What the hell?" And then their voices fade behind me.

    When I finally let myself breathe, it comes out in whimpers and my tears partially blind me. I pass music and laughter. Light from each camper flickers by. I make turns based on what will allow me to disappear faster, cursing myself for not choosing a more heavily wooded campground.

    Eventually, I jet left toward the playground and swivel around toward the restrooms. I run to the door like it''s the surface of the water. My muscles ache. My ankles protest. I can''t seem to run fast enough, but then I crash into the doorway of the lady''s restroom.

    Thankfully no one is inside. I lock myself into one of the stalls, and my body curls into a ball, shivers, weeps. My body rocks, and an angry voice starts chanting inaudible words. I am able to make out: Abandoned. Freak. Scum. Deserted. Unwanted. Unlovable.

    I try to identify where the voice is coming from, till I am forced to recognize that it is my lips that are moving. It is my vocal cords that are vibrating. I am saying these words to myself, and there is something satisfying about it. It''s like I''m entertaining thoughts of vengeance for my worst hated enemy, but the enemy is me. I hurt, and yet there is something satisfying about hurting myself.

 14 - The Reveal

    Perhaps I cried myself to sleep. All I know is that I gasp into alertness. The right side of my body is now cold from leaning against the toilet. I push myself away and avoid taking a serious look at the grime on the floor or toilet.

    The door to the lady''s room swings open. I freeze, but there are no footsteps. A concerned voice says my name. I don''t immediately respond, but he says it again.

    "Alison, are you in here?"

    Philip?

    I stand up in the stall and swallow, hoping to muster a voice that sounds normal. I force a smile for good measure.

    "Give me a minute."

    The door swings shut, and I exit the stall and look at myself in the mirror. The remaining make-up doesn''t look as bad as I had imagined. Still, I wash my face and use toilet paper to clear up the mascara. It leaves my skin redder and raw. How I wish I had grabbed my purse. Then I could at least apply a little concealer under my eyes.

    I cup my hands under the running faucet, drink some water and then smooth out my hair. I force some smiles, pinch my cheeks, but there''s no hiding it.

    And then I am at the door, opening it just crack and peeping my face out.

    Philip stares back at me looking worried, looking gentle, looking like a promise to end my misery.

    "You okay?" he says.

    I look directly into his eyes. Nothing happens. And I laugh and wipe my nose.

    "Oh, you know, just a full-blown panic attack." I stare at a crack in the sidewalk under his shoe. He has no socks on. "I know. It''s pretty pathetic."

    "Your cousins are looking for you."

    "Are they now?" I laugh again. "So you met them?"

    There''s a pause.

    "I bumped into Mia."

    I chuckle. "And has that complicated things?"

    His lips curve upward. "I''ve decided I can handle it. Actually, I''d changed my mind awhile ago. I was heading your way when I overheard . . . well."

    "Must have been a shock for them," I say. "Brianna had been insisting I made you up." I try to laugh but it sounds more like a whimper.

    "Sorry," I say.

    "Don''t be," he says and reaches toward me, almost touching my cheek.

    I give him a soft smile but say nothing.

    "I''m going to go tell Mia that I found you," he says. "Stay here. I''ll be right back."

    He runs off, but I don''t watch him go. Instead, I step outside and play with the bathroom door¡ªnot quite opening and shutting it but moving it on its hinges. I hear the inflections of Philip and Mia''s voices in the distance but willfully don''t pick up any words. Instead, I stare up at the overhead light and watch the moths flutter around it, listening closely to the patterning of their wings against the plastic and the buzz of electricity. I slide my hand along the paint of the door, paying attention to the texture and imperfections¡ªanything to stall my mind from thinking.

    I barely notice when Philip returns, but suddenly he is nudging my back with some solid object in his hand. I turn around.

    "I got this for you," he says and passes into my hands a small object. I turn it over and look at it.

    "It''s concealer," I say, astonished.

    "Mia said just to return it to her purse tonight when no one''s looking."

    I know I shouldn''t be surprised, but I still say, "Mia knows I . . ." I spin the makeup between my fingers anxiously.

    "Alison . . ." Philip says, but I shake my head.

    "I''m sorry," I say. "I''m so sorry. I''m absolutely pathetic. No one should have to baby me¡ªnot Mia, not you. I just¡ª"

    And then my mouth is spitting out words, anxieties and insecurities faster than even I can comprehend. And I''m apologizing for sharing too much with him, for turning him off by this long speedy monologue that is vomiting out of my mouth. I''m sorry for being too sorry, for ruining everything, for being weak and helpless and unattractive and crushing over him and obsessing about him for a full month. I know he''ll never want to speak to me again, and I can''t blame him. He¡ª

    And he kisses me.

    That is, he says my name. I stop talking. I look up. His lips softly brush against mine. My insides tickle and warm with electricity. My eyes widen. And it''s over. He stands before me with my chin cupped in his hand and is smiling at me.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    I take a step back and nearly fall into the door.

    I stutter. "I¡ªI''m just going¡ªI''m just going¡ªgoing to¡ªI don''t know what I''m going to do, but I''ll be in the bathroom."

    He smiles. "Okay."

    And I cocoon myself in the dingy, dimly lit, somewhat smelly building that is just the opposite of romantic.

    "Oh my God."

    I turn and look at myself in the mirror. I say it again.

    "Oh my God."

    I bring my hands¡ªand the bottle of concealer¡ªto my lips and pace the room repeating it over and over.

    "OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod."

    I notice my hands have begun to shake when I nearly drop Mia''s concealer. I walk over to the sink, set the make-up aside, and cling to the edges of the sink for balance. A small squeal escapes my mouth, but I stop short and shoot a glance at the door. I swallow a giggle and fumble with the concealer as I attempt to open it. I try not to spill it. I try not to poke my eyeball as I apply it.

    "Oh my God. How am I going to do this?" I cry as I struggle with the make-up. "Oh my God. He kissed you. Alison, he kissed you. Oh no! Now don''t tear up. This won''t work if you tear up. How do you even have tears left to tear up with? Oh God! Stop this."

    I stomp my foot on the floor.

    "Stop shivering, you moron! Oh my God. But he kissed you!"

    I laugh again.

    "He kissed you, and you''re freaking out about it and talking to yourself in 2nd person!"

    I force myself to keep silent as I apply the rest of the concealer. Then, I walk to the door and prepare myself for¡ªnormalcy. I swallow. I suck my cheeks in briefly. I take a breath. I open the door, and¡ª

    Mia is before me. She leans to one side with her arms folded across her chest.

    "Hi," she says.

    "Uh¡ªhi."

    "You can just give me back the concealer now," she says. "Philip''s over by the playground. He needs to talk to you before you head back."

    "Okay," I say and hand her back the concealer.

    She takes it, stuffs it into her purse, but then stands there blinking at me for several seconds.

    "What?" I finally say.

    And then without a word, she turns and walks into the darkness where the shadows engulf her long before the echoes of her footsteps can no longer be heard.

    I step out of the doorway and let the door swing shut behind me. The overhead light is still buzzing as moths flutter around. The road to the left looks completely empty. There are a few campfires lit in the distance, but all the nearby campers look dark and deserted.

    I find Philip on the bench overlooking the playground. It feels a bit eerie in the darkness with the insects humming around and the darker shadows extending out from the monkey bars, but I sit down beside him on the bench.

    He doesn''t look at me.

    "Hi," I say.

    "Hi."

    I hug my chest briefly. The night is hot, but the wind still has a chill.

    "So, uh," I say. "I¡ªuh¡ªsuppose you heard¡ª"

    "I don''t regret it," he says, and I go silent. "Not really, anyway." He looks at me. "I hope it''s not the last time."

    "Oh."

    I look down and give a shy little giggle.

    "I probably shouldn''t have, though," he says, and we are silent for several moments.

    "Because," I say, and then I mumble. "Because you have a girlfriend?"

    He shakes his head without looking at me.

    "No. Nothing like that."

    Then a crow lands on the monkey bars before us and gives a little caw.

    Philip looks over at the bird and chuckles.

    "Oh, you''re curious, are you?" he says.

    "Huh?"

    But he turns toward me, takes my hands into his and sets them between our laps. The color of his eyes are barely discernible in the darkness, but the whites standout nonetheless.

    "You''ve already suspected that I''m different," he says. "That I have . . . an affect on you."

    I look down at our hands. His thumb rubs over the back of my palm.

    "More than just attraction," he continues. "That I . . . calm you."

    And then I''m looking back into his eyes and am forgetting to breathe. The pain returns, but it isn''t as intense, and the calm it leaves in its wake is mediocre, more like how I feel after I''ve been away from him for a couple of hours.

    He takes my left hand, intertwines our fingers and lifts them up together so that we are touching palm to palm. My heart beats rapidly.

    He smiles gently.

    "You''re going to need to breathe, Alison," he says. "This is better demonstrated than told."

    As I force myself to inhale, a soft cool breeze tickles the back of my neck and ruffles the edges of Philip''s hair. There is another caw from the monkey bars, and I am distracted momentarily by the arrival of a second crow.

    "Ignore them, Alison," Philip says, and his voice sounds a little hallow. "Look at me or you''ll miss it."

    I turn my gaze back, and with a swift rush of wind, he evaporates before my eyes. The wind disperses what subtle image there is left of his face and body. And then I am falling off the bench and exhaling a soft wimper.

    Philip reappears before me, bending forward, bracing me by the arm and softening my fall.

    One of the birds coo''s that strange Aw-lee sound, and Philip pulls me into his chest. I''m not even sure what to do. My ear leans against his solid torso, and he says, "Calm down. Calm down."

    "Don''t¡ªdon''t fricken tell me to calm down!"

    But the pain is already trickling from his fingers, spreading across my skin and soothing me. My breathing slows, and the longer he holds me, the more it feels like I can''t let go. If I let go, I''ll panic again. I''ll have to deal with the reality that he¡ªthat he is¡ª

    I pull just a little away from him, looking up at his face.

    "You," I say. "You have a heartbeat."

    He nods.

    "But what," I say. "What are you?"

    He gives a sad grin and shakes his head.

    "I wish there were an easy answer to that question," he says.

 15 - Sleeping Demon

    "Ta-wah-cun-chunk-dah (Te Wak???kra) ¡ª Devil''s Lake, "Sacred Lake," no bad meaning. Tradition ¡ª Long ago ¡ª a good Winnebago went on the bank of the lake, offering his devotions aloud and crying to the Supreme Being for twenty days, fasting ¡ªwhen he saw an animal resembling a cat rise up to the surface, hearing the Indian''s sorrow ¡ª told him he would help him to live a long and happy life. He did long live. The prayer or worship was called "haah-tock-ke-natch" (h?t¨¢gina?). The animal was called Wock-cheth-thwe-dah (Wakjexira) ¡ª with long tail and horns. Many others also saw this animal."

    - "Devil''s Lake¡ªHow it Got its Name"

    by Big Bear and Big Thunder

    retold by Thomas J. George (1885)

    1756

    The water lapped on the shores of the Wisconsin River early that October morning. Owls hooted. The sun, not yet past the horizon, offered the day a pale blue glow. A thick broth of dried peas and lard bubbled over the campfire.

    Most of the men were still asleep, covered in coarse wool blankets, some partially shielded from wind by the overturned canoe. But the priest who was with them leaned upright against a tree, his eyes half-open as his fingers toyed with his rosary beads. His lips were chapped and bloodied, his face ghostly pale, and the man with the pistol kept looking at him.

    Philip Dussault was returning from the woods, his throat burning and his complexion pale, when his eyes landed on Jacques and his pistol. It was a silver trade pistol with a wooden handle. It had decorative plates on the side, and it was spinning wildly around Jacques'' finger as he lounged against the canoe.

    Jacques looked up at Philip, smiled, and nearly lost control of his pistol. It flew off his finger only to land haphazardly into the grass.

    Jacques chuckled and said in French, "Morning."

    Philip forced a weak smile.

    "Morn. I see you didn''t sleep again."

    Jacques picked the item back up off the ground and pushed up his coonskin cap with the barrel of his gun.

    "An hour or two. You?"

    Philip settled himself down on his mat with a sigh.

    "More. And still more if I can push it. Though I suppose we''ll be off in the next hour."

    Jacques got up and toyed briefly with the ladle in the stew. There was a small amount of blood oozing down the side of his hand. He''d probably cut himself again without noticing.

    "I''m guessing more like four or five," Jacques said.

    Four was late. Five meant something was up.

    Philip nodded as if it meant nothing and tried to get some rest. Jacques wouldn''t allow it.

    "So . . . you sick too?" Jacques asked.

    Philip hesitated, and the priest murmured something.

    "I''m fine," Philip said after a pause.

    "Good," Jacques said. "Lord knows we don''t need another dead-weight."

    And he gestured toward priest with his gun.

    Philip said, "You haven''t liked Father Pleu''s company?"

    Jacques grunted.

    "I''m not you. A month confined next to a priest doesn''t immediately make me want to take holy vows."

    Philip couldn''t help but laugh even in his exhausted state.

    "Oh, you know I''d never abandon the fur trade," he said, and he laid his head back down on a sack of furs and closed his eyes.

    Jacques scoffed.

    "You''ve always behaved more like a priest than a voyaguer. The change would suit you."

    "You only say that because I won''t sleep with a prostitute."

    "Which leaves you with what? A whore you refuse to pay?"

    "Don''t be so profane!"

    "I''m just saying, you''re already living life as a celibate. It wouldn''t be that big of a change."

    Philip laughed.

    "Hmm. Well, I wouldn''t mind not having to rub skunk oil on my skin every morning."

    "If that''s the case, you should have never left France."

    "Eh, I''m glad I did," Philip said.

    "Anyway, that priest is a Goddamn waste of time and cargo space if you ask me. What''s that already small band of missionaries going to do with a sick priest anyway?"

    And the priest''s prayers raised briefly to a more audible level ("Ora pro nobis peccatoribus . . .") as if to announce that he was both awake and aware of the conversation.

    Philip chuckled.

    "Nurse him to health, I would think."

    "He''ll get them sick just like he''s getting us all sick."

    "Are you sick?"

    "No. Just alive, energetic . . . and frisky," Jacques said. "God damn it."The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    And the man stomped his foot on the ground and scratched behind his ear with the gun.

    Philip rolled over onto his side, hoping Jacques would take a hint. He desperately wanted to sleep.

    But then Jacques exclaimed, "God, I need a woman. And we''ve still got another two days before we reach Prairie Du Chien, don''t we?"

    Philip groaned quietly and then mumbled, "Three actually . . . If we end up leaving as late as you suggested." And please God, let that be the case!

    There was a pause, and then Jacques cursed loudly, literally screamed it.

    The birds flew from the nearby trees. Philip opened his eyes and heard the small stirrings from the other men. And then Jacques screamed his vulgarities again and again and again.

    Jacques had always been a man of emotional extremes. Everyone knew that. When he was happy, he was ecstatic. When he was sad, he was mute and lethargic. But this? This was different.

    Philip sat back up on his mat and stared at Jacques. The 36-year-old man had both hands on his head, the pistol leaning sideways on his temple, and he was now mumbling incoherently.

    "Jacques?" Philip said. "Are you okay?"

    And then Jacques stopped. A calm seemed to come over his face. He nodded, got up, stepped over the men, pointed his pistol, and the priest was dead.

    The noise the gun made felt solid, like a physical force pressing against not just Philip''s eardrums but his entire body. And yet there was no time to process it. Father Pleu slumped sideways, and there was a hole, blood . . . brain matter.

    And Philip was getting sick. And Jacques was saying, "Oh. So you were lying, too? I thought it was odd you went into the woods three times tonight."

    The men were getting up. They were confused. Some were reaching toward Jacques. Others were scrambling to the tent to notify their leader.

    Philip heard, "He''s dead. He''s dead. Oh my God. Rollan''s dead."

    And Jacques was turning his gun toward Philip. The was blood on his hand, but no cut. Philip could see that now. And then his fist was gripping at his wool blanket and his sack of furs as he scrambled onto his feet.

    "It really is an act of mercy, you know," Jacques was saying. "A dog goes maim; you shoot it."

    Hands were gripping Jacques'' shoulders. The gun was firing ¨C splintering a tree, missing Philip. And Philip was running. Trees and thorns and thistle all flew past him. He tripped, jumped, landed at wrong angles on his foot and kept going. His heart pattered madly in his chest, and he could feel his pulse vibrating through his neck.

    Hours later, Philip gasped with a sudden alertness. He was face first in mud. Both his ankles hurt. His knees hurt. His muscles ached. Even the beating of his heart was painful.

    He lifted his head and coughed, crawling onto his knees and hacking up a lung.

    The bird next to him hopped gently backward, extending its black wings out briefly. And then it simply watched, tilting its head in swift jerky motions.

    When the coughing was over, Philip felt the weight of his exhaustion, sickness, and thirst hang heavily over his body. He was weak, dizzy, mentally disoriented . . . And God, was he thirsty.

    He searched his person for his water sack, and the crow cawed at him.

    "What?" he said in a hoarse voice. "You hungry? Thought you''d found dinner?"

    Again he patted his clothing looking for that water sack. There had to be some left from the last portage they''d made over land.

    The bird continued to stare.

    You''re going to die, it seemed to tell him.

    Then he found the water sack and drank. It wasn''t much, but he enjoyed it thoroughly. He smiled at the bird when he was done.

    "Well, I''m not dead yet, am I?" he said. "Now shoo."

    But when he waved his hand toward the bird, it only fluttered up briefly and landed in the same spot.

    It was a strange bird, slightly bigger from any crow he''d seen before. There were thin strands of white in some of its feathers, and its beak wasn''t just pointed. It was jagged.

    Philip moved onto his behind and collected his belongings ¨C just the pack of animal skins and his wool blanket, certainly not enough to survive the winter out here.

    See? The crow seemed to be saying. You are as good as dead.

    And then thing hopped closer to him eagerly.

    But Philip got up anyway. He walked and wavered from tree to tree, using the boughs for support, and the bird followed him his entire journey.

    He happened upon the lake by accident. His lips were cracked, his tongue near dry. He would have preferred to discover the river, but it still felt like a Godsend. The lake shimmered darkly in the sunlight, inviting him.

    "See?" he said to the bird, and the bird hopped beside him like a pet. "Water."

    He had no energy to run, and the journey seemed to take far longer than it should have, but then he was collapsing knee first into the water, cupping it in his hands and drinking before he remembered he still had his canoe cup tied to his belt. He removed it and drank cup full after cup full of water till he was too exhausted to drink more.

    He sat back on his feet. The two bluffs hugged the lake closely, gripping the water tightly like a possessive mother, sheltering it from the rest of the world. And the bird still hovered behind him.

    You can''t leave, the crow seemed to be saying. You can eat and drink, trap and skin animals, but no one is here, and winter is coming. You will die.

    And it was true. The lake wasn''t a river. He couldn''t hope to follow it to a port like Prairie Du Chien. If he wanted to survive winter, he had remained within its confines.

    It was December when Philip began to contemplate suicide. He was healthy again, though a little malnourished, and he''d succeeded in building a crude shelter. The fire kept him warm enough, but fishing meant soaking the only pair of pants he had. Avoiding hypothermia and frostbite was getting to be a real challenge.

    He knew it was superstitious to assume the crow following him was the same one that had followed him two months earlier, but there was a sense of certainty in it. Certainly, it was large, had those same jagged edges in its beak, and even some white in its feathers. But perhaps that was just snow.

    These days, though, there seemed a level of intelligence in its movements and gestures. It seemed almost human to him.

    Die. Just die, and feed me.

    The thought would pop up even when the bird wasn''t around and yet it all seemed connected to that bird.

    And then the thoughts started changing.

    Kill yourself. Toss yourself off a cliff, and feed me. I am so hungry.

    Oddly enough, there was something pleasant in these thoughts, something that eased the misery if only temporarily. And so he found that the more he entertained the thoughts of suicide, the more bearable it was to live. And so he began imagining very detailed and extravagant ways to die all as he performed his daily labor to stay alive. But when he''d resist the thoughts, the heaviness of his depression revealed itself as far heavier than the time before, and it was a weight he could not bear. Only thinking about death brought any sort of consolation.

    In January, he was repairing his animal skin gloves in his shelter when a small piece of parchment slipped out from between the ever-thinning pack of animal skins. He caught it before it flew into the fire and read.

    It was only a small scrap. It didn''t offer Philip any special meaning, only a reminder of his friend ¨C the priest. This had to have come from Father Pleu''s breviary. How it had gotten in between the furs, Philip couldn''t answer, but he kept reading the words over and over.

    "the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death . . ."

    Each word, each reading of that text tore his heart out further. He kept seeing Father Pleu''s body slump sideways. He kept seeing the blood and that gaping hole, and he felt both compelled to continue reading and to stop, both the desire to offer a prayer and to not, both to live and to die.

    But where had God been? The man had been praying his rosary, for Christ''s sakes. How could a good God let something so terrible happen to such a good priest?

    Anger welled up in his heart, and his fingers loosened, letting the paper floated away into the fire.

    Jump off the cliff''s edge. It''ll be quick, came the thought.

    It was a terrible thought, but it silenced his mind. Suddenly, he was merely aware of his own body, the fold of his legs, his hands resting upon his thighs, the tear sliding down his cheek . . . and fear. It was like some internal alarm bells were ringing. His heart was picking up its pace, his muscles were tensing.

    You can''t run. We''ll chase you.

    He didn''t dare look behind him, but he felt something ¨C a presence just behind him. Someone was there.

 16 - What Are You?

    I turn off toward the woods and stop only a short distance on the trail. Then I sit on the ground and hug my knees. Philip joins me at my side.

    "Alison," he whispers but says nothing more.

    I look over at him and the moonlight glints in his eyes.

    I say, "So you don''t know. You don''t know what you are, if something attacked you, or even if you died?"

    He shrugs tilting his head to the side.

    "I''ve had my theories," he says.

    "Like what?"

    He hesitates.

    "I could be a ghost," he says. "Alma thinks I just need to finish my penance, avoid sin, and I''ll be out of Purgatory eventually."

    "Who''s Alma?"

    He smiles.

    "The ghost who lives with me," he says with a hint of intentional irony. "But she''s more or less what you''d expect a ghost to be. But me?" He shrugs.

    I look at him. "How are you different?"

    He takes my hand and presses my palm to his chest. My heart beats wildly not only at the feel of warm hard muscle under my hand but at his pulse. His eyes turn black and waves of stinging pain hit me as images flash through my mind: of him compelling the manager at DQ to give me a free meal, of him feeling out my emotions and thoughts, of him restraining my anxiety, of him disappearing in the rain after I was out of eyesight.

    When I begin to shiver, the images stop. My hand is still resting upon Philip''s chests, my heart pounding heavily within me.

    I take a few heavy breaths before I ask, "You don''t drink blood, do you? Because if you do, I think I know what you are."

    His sudden laughter is jarringly beautiful, and he lets go of my hand and scoots closer.

    "No," he says. "But I do age."

    "How does that work?" I ask.

    "In cycles," he says. "When I start a new one, I remember nothing. I''m just a kid with strange powers in a world I don''t recognize. At night, the memories start returning, but I never remember anything past the age I''m currently living." Then he chuckles, his breath warming the outer edge of my ear. "That''s sort of how we met."

    I turn and look at him.

    "What do you mean?"

    His smile widens briefly.

    "It was a new life cycle," he says. "But it was different than before. I wasn''t home, wasn''t greeted by ghosts, or having anything explained. And then you found me and took care of me. You weren''t the least bit frightened."

    I scoff, "That''s hard to believe."

    We''re silent for a moment, and he shakes his head.

    "You''re braver than you know," he says. "But . . . I''d like to help you with your phobias . . . if you''d let me."

    I inhale deeply. "You already do."

    And he leans forward till our foreheads touch. The crickets chirp around us. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a voice that''s still telling me to run away, to run from him, and yet I stay.

    "I''m sorry I scare you now," he says softly.

    "I''m not as scared as I should be," I say. "But maybe¡ªmaybe that''s your doing."

    He strokes my cheek.

    "I''ve let go," he says in a hush. "This is all you."

    And we linger there with our foreheads touching for several seconds until he kisses me there. When I don''t resist, he kisses my forehead again and then slowly moves down my face. Even he is shivering as he sends brilliant tingles where-ever his lips touch. And he''s hesitant. He seems to consider each one, toying with the possibility of stopping.

    My heart beats wildly both with desire and fear. I should stop this now, and yet I can''t find the will.

    And then our noses touch, and he lingers there quietly as we both shiver. I know he wants to kiss me and not a quick peck like before. A real kiss. The thought of it frightens me, and yet my lips tingle with a growing anticipation the longer he waits.

    Just as I''m starting to doubt he''ll do it, he says, "May I?"

    Butterflies flutter around inside me, and I let out a tiny, "Mm-Hmm."

    And then slowly, gently, like he''s afraid I might break, his lips brush against mine. Instinctively, I close my eyes, and his lips caress mine more firmly. My insides scream, Yes! Yes! And suddenly I no longer feel shy about it. Our lips move as they''re meant to.

    The longer I kiss him, the more I don''t want to stop, the more I don''t care about anything else. The world around us seems to disappear. There is only me and Philip and this moment.

    When he pulls away, I whine a protest and force my lips back into their rightful place, almost toppling him over. His laughter comes from deep within his throat, and then something happens, something I''ve noticed before but have always dismissed.

    Alison, we need to stop.

    I pull away and stare at his face. You''re talking in my mind, aren''t you?

    He smiles.

    "Yes," he says both out loud and in my head.

    I shake my head. "I don''t know how much more of this I can take."

    Philip escorts me back to the campsite, not holding my hand, not standing too close. He seems to understand I''m not quite ready to advertise we are . . . that he is . . . Is he my boyfriend? Or was that kiss just¡ª

    He laughs. "I wouldn''t have kissed you if I weren''t serious, Alison."

    I look at him and blush.This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    "I know how you feel about me," he says. "And I know how sensitive your heart is. I wouldn''t toy with it like that."

    I look down at the ground. Though my heart wants to wrap itself in the security of his words, the fact that he can know my feelings so deeply frightens me.

    "Hey." He takes my hand and squeezes it. We stop. "I didn''t say that to make you more uncomfortable. I just wanted to reassure you."

    I nod. "I know." Then, I let go of his hand. "Let''s just get back to the campsite and try not to rush things. A serious relationship develops over time. It doesn''t jump blindly into emotions."

    We resume walking, and he continues to smile. "You act like we''re strangers."

    "For me," I say. "We nearly are strangers. That''s why this scares me."

    "It scares me too," he says, and I meet his eyes again. "I''ve never done this . . . Not in this life anyway. Not since my first life. All I know is that I don''t want to lose y¡ªthis." His smile widens like he''s trying to be cute. "So, if you''ll be my girlfriend, I''ll be your¡ª"

    "Boyfriend. Got it." I swallow and stare forward. "But let''s try to take things slow."

    He smirks. "I''ll try."

    We arrive back at the campsite. Mia sits alone in a camp chair, staring blankly into the fire. Her eyes glance up at us. She frowns, sighs, and turns her gaze back to the fire.

    "She''ll be okay," Philip whispers to me and then heads over to the others at the picnic table. Only Brianna and Sophie remain. Brianna looks up, followed by Sophie. "Told ya I''d bring her back."

    "Oh, thank God," Brianna exclaims and sets her hand of cards face down on the picnic table. She gets up from her seat and heads over to me. "Alison, I''m so sorry. What I did was¡ª"

    Tell her you''re sorry too, Philip''s voice jumps in my mind. It''ll smooth things over.

    "So rude and presumptuous," my cousin continues. "I have no idea¡ª"

    Don''t buy it, Philip insists. She''s still mad. Say, ''I''m sorry too.'' ''I''m sorry too.''

    I spit out, "I''m sorry too, Bri."

    Relief spreads across Brianna''s face.

    Philip continues to fill me in. She''s mad at you, because . . . Ugh! Well, isn''t she the controlling type?

    "Really?" Brianna says.

    She feels you wasted her time asking for help. Focus on communication. Tell her you''re sorry you¡ª

    But Philip''s explanation is taking too long, so I repeat his words nearly verbatim. "I''m sorry I didn''t communicate better. I mean, I get it. I wasn''t taking initiative, so you took the lead. I should have told you I''d been in contact with Philip, and that we were hoping to meet up." The next words are my own. "To be honest, I was afraid if you knew, you wouldn''t come."

    Brianna looks at Philip.

    She thinks we reconnected on . . . What''s social media?

    You don''t know what¡ª

    But Brianna is already talking. "Of course, I would have come."

    Liar! Philip says.

    "You''re my cousin. We''re practically sisters."

    That why you''re feeling so guilty, Brianna?

    My cousin blushes, but still says, "We got to look out for each other."

    Can she hear you? I ask.

    Not exactly. She''s confusing my thoughts for her own.

    Wow. You could really screw with someone''s mind, couldn''t you?

    But Philip doesn''t answer. Instead, he takes my hand. "So, Alison and I were talking about how we could support her in confronting her water phobia. And my thought is that we head out to Rock 8 tomorrow."

    Brianna blinks. So do I. Then my cousin says, "Cliff jumping?" I shoot my gaze at Philip, but he doesn''t look back. "Don''t you think that''s a bit extreme?"

    Philip shrugs. "There''s a ledge we can climb down," he said. "She doesn''t have to jump from the boulder."

    My insides protest.

    Brianna gives voice to my fears. "But that water''s still deep, and there''s no lifeguard."

    "There''s no lifeguards anywhere, Brianna," Philip says. "And you think I have no experience rescuing people from the water? I''m an experienced swimmer and know how to handle myself. She''ll be safe with me."

    I''m going to die. I''m so going to die!

    Shh . . . You''ll be fine, Alison. I told you I wanted to help.

    Brianna glances down at our locked hands then looks back at Philip. "Who are you?"

    Philip almost smiles. "I''m Alison''s boyfriend."

    "Boyfriend?"

    I blush. "It just¡ªIt just happened." I''m going to die. I''m going to faint right here and die.

    Philip speaks, "I was the one who suggested Alison return to the lake and reconcile with her past. But we were out of contact for a few weeks. I had no way of knowing when or what she''d decide to do. She came here of her own volition. She had no way of knowing whether I''d be around."

    Brianna looks back at me, "And you trust him to take you out to Rock 8?"

    I can feel the blood draining from my face. "I¡ªI probably won''t go in."

    But in my mind, Philip says, Oh, I''ll get you in the water.

    "I mean, maybe I''ll dip my feet in, but . . ."

    A wave of his pain of power travels up my arm. My head clears. My heart relaxes a little. I take in a calmer breath and stand up straighter.

    "But that''s what you want?" Brianna says.

    I nod. Why am I nodding!

    "Well, I guess I''m okay with it," my cousin says. "If everyone else is."

    Sophie offers her approval. Mia grunts a "Yeah, fine."

    I force an uncomfortable smile and then lean into Philip''s ear. "Can I talk to you?"

    "Of course."

    "If you could excuse us," I say to my cousin and then drag my new boyfriend into the tent.

    For a moment he hesitates at the entrance.

    "You can zip it up," I say. "I want privacy."

    Philip whispers something to the girls outside and zips closed the tent. "This won''t exactly be¡ª"

    But when he stands back up, I pound him in the chest and begin to sob. "What are you doing? We didn''t talk about this. I didn''t know¡ª"

    Philip wraps his arms around me, cocooning my firsts between us, and holds me close. Quietly, I weep.

    Eventually, he says into my ear. "I''m doing this to help you, and to win more of Brianna''s trust."

    "Why do you need her trust?"

    He strokes my back, and his power radiates all around me. This time it''s not really painful. It''s warm and secure, and my sobbing stops. Curiosity takes hold as I feel his emotions for me. There''s desire and sorrow, regret, and a protective sort of¡ªbut they vanish as if he''d realized he''d he''d exposed himself and now covers it out of embarrassment.

    "Because it''s easier to have someone''s trust than force it," he says. "I told you, your cousins complicate things. Don''t think I''ll be satisfied with just one weekend with you. If you''re ever to come back, we need to ensure your cousins don''t interfere."

    I blink away my tears, the reality dawning on me. "Because if my aunt found out, she definitely would."

    "We need to keep things simple," he says again.

    "Yes," I say, and I linger in his arms for a while, my eyes closed, my ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

    "I should go," he says. "You''re tired." He loosens his grip.

    "Don''t," I say, but he still steps away. I look at him. "Please stay."

    He simply looks at me a moment, seemingly toying with his thoughts. "I want to, only I . . ." He looks at the entrance of the tent. "Your cousins will be heading to bed themselves soon."

    I stop a little forward. "I don''t think they''d mind."

    And he smirks. He barely meets my eye. "We agreed to keep this simple." He meets my eye. "And didn''t you say you wanted to take things slow?"

    "But we''re not," I say. "I don''t know that we can."

    He reaches to the zipper at the entrance of the tent. "Well, I''d like to try." He unzips the tent and as he steps out says, "Goodnight, Alison."

    I give a light grin. "Goodnight, Philip."