FOUR

I DIDN’T STAND THERE long before the man asked me another question, still working to tame the chaos of vines around the well. “You have ideas about what’s causing the suicides?”

From across the clearing, I made my best attempt at a logical theory. “Seems to me some people are strong, and others —not so much. The weak ones can’t handle life’s pressures. They give up and end it all, then the stress of the suicides causes other weak people to give in to it themselves. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I see,” he said. He didn’t seem impressed by my answer.

“What about you?” He’d put me on the spot —it seemed fair to do the same to him. “You have a theory?”

The old man turned to face me. “Sabotage.”

“Huh?” What was he talking about? I walked fast to the center of the clearing. “You’re saying someone’s plotting the suicides?”

He nodded, his cowboy hat bobbing up and down.

“How’s that possible? Suicide is self-inflicted.”

The man rubbed his hands together, wiping away dirt. “Suicide is provoked. Every time.” His voice echoed off the trees.

I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

He swept our surroundings with a glance but said nothing.

“Provoked by who?” I probed again.

He just went back to trimming.

That’s when it clicked. This man was a conspiracy theorist. Irrational. Deranged, for all I knew. Maybe even a protester along with the other psychos that flocked to my school.

I was out of there.

I drove Jess home, we said our good-byes, and I watched her step inside her marble-floored house. I’d decided to put the weird man in overalls out of my mind, but on my way home, our conversation gnawed at me. How’d he know about my mom? And that well . . .

It was dry. I was sure of it. But the bucket came up full.

I was still some distance away when I spotted a truck parked in my driveway —a blue Chevy I’d never seen before. I pulled up next to it, killed my bike’s engine, and sat there, knowing full well what would happen next. I’d open the front door and find some man on the sofa next to my mom. She’d jump up and introduce me to the guy like there was nothing disgusting about the situation.

No, thank you.

I took off. Minutes later, I was blazing down the dirt trail behind Masonville High, then charging through the woods on foot, headed back to the murky clearing.

It was sunset by the time I got there and nearly pitch black inside the tree-shaded circle. I used my cell to light my steps, determined to take a closer look at the well. There was no way I’d get my brain to stop turning long enough to fall asleep tonight if I didn’t figure this out.

Yeah, it was eerie here at night, but I wasn’t about to chicken out. I pressed my waist against the brick ledge and leaned over the well, careful not to drop my cell. Just like I thought, there was no water down there.

Not a drop.

I was about to turn the handle, but the instant I reached for it, something pressed down hard on my shoulder. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

I spun around, out of breath, working hard to steady my light. “What are you doing here?” I’m sure I sounded angry.

The old man stood a foot away, smiling at me from the blanket of black that engulfed the clearing. “Had a feeling you’d be back.”

“So . . . you were waiting for me?”

I found that odd. Really odd.

He walked past me and sat on the brick ledge. “You have an interest in my water well?”

“Actually, ah . . .” I cleared my throat. “It’s my well. I own all this.”

His eyebrows shot straight up. “So this is your property.” I picked up on some sarcasm, like he was a step ahead of me. “Well then, want a drink from your well?”

“No, sir. I want an explanation. How’d you know about my life?” I pointed to the well. “And how’d you draw water from a dry source?”

He gave a long exhale. “I imagine you’re like most people. Have to see to believe.” He crossed his arms. “Problem is, some things you have to believe, or you never will see.”

“What are you talking about?”

He began to turn the handle. “What do you plan to do with your life, young man?”

“Get back to Boston. Become a doctor.”

“You wanna save lives?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

He paused his hoisting of the rope. “Young people are dying, son —right here, at your school. An entire town in upheaval, demanding to know why. Guessing at what to do.”

“And?” I took a step toward him, still shining my cell light. “What can I do?”

A few more cranks, and the bucket dangled over the well, water spilling over. It made no more sense than it had the first time. “How’s that happening?” I demanded.

The old man reached into the pocket of his denim overalls and, like before, pulled out two paper cups. He extended one to me. “Some things only make sense in hindsight.”

I was getting irritated now, but I did my best to keep being polite. “Look, I want you to tell me who you are and what’s going on.” I shined my light on the overflowing bucket, then back on his face. “Please. I came here for answers.”

He grinned, then scooped water into the cups. Held one out to me yet again.

I sighed, my irritation out in the open now. I took the cup and stared at it. “Wait . . .” The rim was ripped in the exact same place as before. “I crushed this cup, but it’s not creased.”

The man shrugged.

I used my finger to pull out a floating speck. “What’s the point of this?”

“Some things only —”

“Make sense in hindsight. Got it.” I shook my head. Huffed. Eyed the water. “I drink this, you talk?”

“Get all the answers you want.” He lifted his cup to chin level. “And then some.”

I raised the cup to my lips, gave a reluctant sigh. “Utquomque.” Latin for whatever.

And with that, I leaned my head back and swigged it down.

The water tasted normal.

The old man drained his cup, then just stood there. Staring at me.

“So?” I crushed the cup. Again.

“So . . .” He stood. “Now I go.”

He walked into the shadows.

“Wait!” I kept my light aimed at him. “Where are you going?”

He lifted an eyebrow like it was obvious. “Home.”

“But you said you’d talk to me.”

“I said you’d get answers.” He pulled the brim of his cowboy hat lower on his forehead, winked, then walked away whistling, apparently fine with walking in the dark.

“Thanks a lot.” My tone was loaded with resentment. But what could I do? Wrestle him down and force him to explain? I could still hear him whistling long after he faded out of sight, that same song from earlier.

I stumbled a few times but finally made it back through the woods to my motorcycle, with no more answers than the last time I’d been here. I was shoving my helmet on when it hit me.

Pain.

I mean pain. It hijacked my gut. Worst stomachache ever. It felt like that well water had turned to ice daggers in my belly. I’d never felt anything like it before. And my head was throbbing.

Big surprise —the water was obviously unsanitary. What had I been thinking?

I drove home with two goals in mind: don’t wreck, and don’t barf in the helmet. I almost pulled over several times but pushed through, desperate to get to my toilet bowl and flannel sheets.

I clung tightly to the handlebars with every turn, considering possible diagnoses. The most probable: I’d just ingested a ravenous parasite that was feasting on the lining of my stomach. And giving birth to ice-cold larvae. At an astounding rate.

Don’t panic.

I nearly clipped the mailbox as I careened into our driveway. At least the blue truck was gone.

It was all I could do to pull my keys out of the ignition. Am I really that weak?

I slid off my bike and accidentally dropped my keys on the damp pavement. By the time I grabbed them, I had a full-blown migraine, the shakes, and what felt like frozen claws trying to slice through my abdomen.

I tried to throw up in the bushes, but nothing came out.

I reached the front door, anxiety gripping me. The porch was spinning. How was I supposed to get my key into the lock? Finally something went my way. I gave the knob a twist, and the door opened.

I normally wouldn’t ask my mom for help, but the feeling that death was breathing down my neck compelled me. I needed to know where she put the bottle of ibuprofen and that pink stomach-relief stuff.

“Mom?” My keys crashed onto the wood floor. I stumbled toward the sofa. “Mom!”

I buckled and toppled onto my side, my head connecting painfully with the floor.

“Are you here?” For all my effort, I couldn’t project my voice beyond a whisper. I rubbed my forehead with one hand and covered my mouth with the other.

The only light on was in the hallway. Wonderful. The one time I didn’t want to be home alone.

I heard the patter of Daisy’s nails tapping the floor, but I was too disoriented to see where she was. “Help me, girl,” I whispered. She panted in my ear.

I lay there in the fetal position and dug my fingers into my sides. My face radiated heat, but my gut remained chilled.

I would have called someone, but I had no clue where my cell was.

I surrendered to the pain and let my eyes drift shut. I considered the real possibility that the water was contaminated and I might not survive drinking it. Had the old man intended to kill me?

I had a sudden, disturbing realization: if I died, it might look like a suicide.

Fear gave way to exhaustion and a final crushing thought.

I don’t want to be number thirteen.