Marci was gone.
I struggled for words, sad and broken, furious that I had to go through this again and feeling more guilty than I could stand over the fact that I would even dare to think about myself instead of the girl standing in front me. She was lost and scared and she needed a friend, she needed some kind of stability, and here I was too gutted by a surge of emotions to even figure out who she was. I hated emotions so much—all they ever did was get in the way—and now look at me, thinking about myself again. I had to help her.
She was someone who recognized me, that much seemed clear. Was it Brooke? I almost said her name, but stopped. The people in the church knew her as Marci, and I didn’t want to make them suspicious.
“Marci, dear,” said Ingrid, “are you all right?”
“Marci,” said Brooke, and her eyes never left me, melting slowly from confusion to pity. “Oh, John, I’m so sorry.”
So much for quelling suspicion, but at least now I knew it was Brooke—she was the only other personality who knew about Marci.
“Who’s John?” asked Ingrid. I shook my head.
“She needs medicine,” I said, grabbing Brooke’s arm. Medicine was a great excuse because nobody wanted to argue with it and few people knew enough about medicine to ask probing questions. It would explain her confusion, I hoped, but mostly it would get us out of there—and I had to get out of there fast. “Thank you for letting us sit with you,” I mumbled. “Have a good day.” I didn’t want to make a scene but I couldn’t stay there for another minute. I needed air. Brooke followed without argument.
“Is something wrong?” asked the pastor.
“She just needs her medicine,” I said again. “We’re fine, thank you.”
“Number 42 Beck Street,” Ms. Glassman called out after us. “Lunch’ll be ready at noon.”
I picked up my pace once we got outside, turning away from the main road to try to lose myself in the side streets, to get as far away from everyone as I could. Paul was in the parking lot, leaning against a car. He stared at us in shock as we walked past.
“Hey, Marci,” he managed, just as we rounded the fence and hurried out of sight.
“How long was I gone?” asked Brooke. “Does the whole town know us?”
“Yes,” I growled. “It was stupid to go in there, it was stupid to meet everyone, it was stupid to…” I walked faster, nervous and scared and angry all at once. “Everything is stupid. Everything is wrong and I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m—” I stopped, closing my eyes, freezing in place on the sidewalk. I couldn’t talk like this; I was talking like Brooke did before a suicide attempt. I had to help her, not set her off.
I took a deep breath and turned, finding her standing behind me with deep concern etched into her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “everything’s fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m just a little frazzled, but we’re okay. You’re okay.”
“How long was I Marci?”
“Just last night and this morning,” I said, trying to slow my breathing. My hands were shaking, and I clenched them into fists. “We’ve only been in town for thirteen hours at the most. You’re fine.”
“But you’re not,” she said again, and she stepped toward me, reaching for my face. “I’ve always known Marci might come out and I knew that it would be hard for you—”
“Don’t touch me,” I said, shying away from her hand. “Why do you all keep trying to touch me?”
“Because that’s what humans do when we’re sad,” said Brooke. “We comfort each other.”
I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “Just stop … touching me, I can’t handle this right now, okay?”
“You hold me when I need it,” she said softly, stepping toward me again. “You know that it helps with my episodes to have a hug or a touch or some kind of physical contact.” She put her hand on my arm. “Let me do the same for you—”
“I’m not having an episode,” I said, wrenching away from her, “I’m just trying to—I don’t know!”
“What do you think an episode is if not this?”
“She was supposed to be dead,” I said.
Brooke watched me for a moment, parsing this sudden change in direction. “Most people would beg for a chance to talk to their dead.”
“Most people haven’t done it,” I said.
“I thought you loved her.”
“Stop using that word!” I shouted. I looked around, worried that people would hear us, that people would look out their windows and watch us, that Paul would come around the corner and start talking to us again. I needed to run, not toward anything, but just run, as fast as I could. I squeezed my arms tighter around my chest.
“You’re having a panic attack,” said Brooke. “Dr. Trujillo taught me about them. Take a deep breath or you’ll hyperventilate.”
“An hour ago you didn’t even remember Dr. Trujillo.”
“Is that supposed to hurt me?”
“Of course not,” I said, closing my eyes and crouching on the sidewalk. “I never want to hurt you, I’m sorry, but I can’t…” I didn’t know what to say.
I heard Brooke’s shoes scraping on the pavement, felt the soft puff of her breath as she crouched next to me. “You can’t what?”
“Nothing you can help me with.”
“Just saying it out loud can help.”
I shook my head. “Marci was the most important thing in my life.”
“I know.”
“Now you are,” I whispered.
She paused a moment. “I know.”
“And I can’t have one without losing the other.”
I heard footsteps and opened my eyes to see the pastor walking toward us with my backpack in one hand and Brooke’s in the other. We’d left them in the church. I stood up, grateful that I hadn’t been crying—and then a part of me grew disturbed that I hadn’t been crying and filed it away as another inhuman fault. “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “We’d just noticed we’d forgotten them.” It wasn’t true; it was another knee-jerk lie. Why did I do that?
“Are you okay?” he asked again. “Is there something I can do?”
“No thank you,” I said, taking the pack. What if he’d looked through it? What if he’d found the gun, or my notes about the Withered? What if he’d found something that could link us to our real identities?
“You said she needed medicine,” said the pastor softly, “but you don’t look well, either.”
“I’m just sad, is all.” That was true enough, though I realized that might be the first time I’d ever admitted the emotion out loud. “Someone very close to us died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the pastor. “Is that why you’re … traveling?” He’d hesitated just a moment before saying the final word. What had he almost said instead? Running? Hiding? He’d definitely guessed that our story wasn’t true.
“David and I…” Brooke said the names carefully, as if she were testing strange waters with her toe. “Our friend passed away last week—my friend, his brother. John.”
“Something you said in there reminded us of him,” I said, continuing the story. “That’s all.”
He eyed us carefully. “Is there something I can do to help? Even if it’s just listening while you talk about it?”
“‘For a time is coming,’” I quoted, “‘when all who are in their graves will hear his voice and come out—those who have done good will rise to live, and those who have done evil will rise to be condemned.’”
“John 5,” said the pastor. “Verses twenty-eight and twenty-nine.”
“What if they’re trapped?” I asked. “What if they can’t rise to go anywhere?”
He paused a moment, as if he was trying to figure out what I was really asking, the question behind the question. “The world is full of terrible things,” he said at last, “but I’ve never seen anything so terrible it could stop God from saving his own child.”
“Sure you have,” I said, thinking of the Withered hiding somewhere in this tiny, idyllic community. “You just didn’t recognize it.”
“Where is Beck Street?” asked Brooke, then she tilted her head. “Or do I know that already?”
She was getting flighty again, losing her grip on the real world as the other girls’ memories bubbled up to the surface.
“Still needs her medicine,” I said, but all I could think was He’s going to turn us in. He’s worried, he thinks we’re lost and sick and ran away from home, and he’s going to call the police. How could I put him at ease?
He nodded, looking at us a moment longer, then pointed behind us. “It’s that next street—we don’t have many, so it’s easy to find the one you want. Runs parallel to Main Street, where the church is. Turn left toward the center of town, and Sara Glassman’s house is about three blocks down.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I looked at the sky. “Just past eleven o’clock, it looks like?”
He pulled out a phone to check the time. “11:13.”
“Then I’m late for a phone call,” I said, concocting a lie that I hoped would keep him mollified. “My mother’s kind of nervous, us being out here like this, so she wants me to call every day at eleven to let her know we’re okay.” Adults didn’t usually take teens at their word, but sometimes all it took to calm them was to mention another adult. They respected imaginary authority more than the children right in front of them.
“Where did you say you were from?” asked the pastor. Was he genuinely trying to remember or was he testing us? I hadn’t said anything, but Marci had. Stilton, or Stetson, or something like that. I’d only been half listening.
“Stillson,” said Brooke.
“That’s right,” said the pastor, nodding. “I remember now. And you please remember, please: if there’s anything you need, I’m right there in the chapel.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I waved politely as he turned to walk back to the church. His dog and Boy Dog sniffed their farewells.
“Okay,” said Brooke, turning to me. “Let’s talk about this—”
“Let’s don’t,” I said, putting on my backpack. “I’m fine now.”
“But we need to…” She trailed off as I turned away, ignoring her. I didn’t know if she was respecting my wishes or just too cowed to continue.
We walked to Beck Street and followed it slowly, staying in the shade of the trees on the lawns. There was no sidewalk here, just one block away from Main Street, so we walked through the gravel on the side of the road, listening to it crunch beneath our feet. We identified Sara Glassman’s house but walked past it, looking for somewhere to kill time without being close to other people. This turned out to be nearly impossible in a town that small; there were so few people around we stood out anywhere we went. The few people we did see waved and seemed friendly enough, but I wanted to get out of sight. Finally we found a culvert adjacent to a narrow stretch of lawn and a giant weeping willow, the branches so long and heavy that they reached to the ground. We pushed our way through the leaves like a curtain of chi beads, and found a small space in the center that felt isolated from the rest of the town.
“Hey,” said Derek, who was sitting on the edge of the culvert. “It’s you again.”