 
VOICES

THE REINCARNATION SERIES, BOOK 1

by R.E. Rowe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 by R.E. Rowe

Cover Illustration by LLPix Designs

Book illustrations copyright 2015 R.E. Rowe

Train illustration by Petros Athanasiou

Rose illustration by Kate Syska

Rooster illustration by Alyona Vodophina

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Voices is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, places, theories, and dialogue in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, organizations, or locales, is coincidental.

VOICES

THE REINCARNATION SERIES, BOOK 1

Two troubled teens find romance but the truth they discover might just destroy them...

In a small town in Arkansas, two lives that seemingly have nothing in common will converge and change each other forever. A brilliant but tormented street artist and an ex-track star whose career was cut short by a heart condition.

Aimee DeLuca had a promising athletic career before her heart gave out during a high school track and field contest. Aimee struggles to find her way after spending time with a deceased grandmother during her near death experience. Reizo Rush is a street artist whose torment fuels his desire to add color to the gray walls of the city. But Reizo's tagging and the two voices only he hears land him in perpetual trouble with both his teachers and the law.

During a chance encounter, Aimee inadvertently causes Reizo to rethink his exit plan. The two quickly find out they have much more in common than love. When they stumble upon a century-old storm cellar hidden underground on Aimee's uncle's ranch, they unearth a cellar full of artifacts, a diary, and a hundred-year-old Will. Once the news of the discovery leaks out, a drug-dealing teen and a mysterious soul named General are determined to bury the truth along with anyone who gets in their way.

Follow the author on twitter @rickerowe

Voices/R.E. Rowe—1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9909992-1-8

Dedicated to dreamers who dream up dreamers

" _A single vibration emerged when the weight of nothing pressed in upon itself and became something."_

~Hack, Carmina's Notebook

**D** ear **R** eader,

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this series. If you can take just a moment and write a quick review, I would greatly appreciate it. Even one sentence will help.

Thank you! ~R.E. Rowe

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Train Image

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Rose Image

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Rooster Image

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

About the Author

Connect with R.E. Rowe

Other books by R.E. Rowe

Acknowledgements

#  chapter one

Forty-three minutes without a heartbeat—a little longer than a sitcom. About the time it takes for first period at Theodore High. It'd been five years since I'd seen Grams. She looked amazingly happy, considering she was dead.

After waking up from heart surgery, the first words I uttered in the recovery room were "Did my team win?"

"Miracle, miracle," a nurse whispered. I guess she thought I'd have brain damage.

Another nurse cried. A male nurse asked me if I'd experienced anything strange. He said some patients have what they call a "Near-Death-Experience"—NDE for short. After all, I'd been officially pronounced dead before the doctors brought me back to life.

I told him, "No, nothing worth mentioning." Lying was easier than telling the truth. There's no way I'll ever talk to anyone about those forty-three minutes—especially not Mom or her boyfriend, Hank. What would I tell them? "Hey, remember when I was dead? Well, I hung out with Grams on a bright day at Uncle Pete's pond."

Not a chance. I'd get tagged a wacko and locked up at Willowgate, just like the crazy kid from school.

The nurses told me it'd been a miracle that I had survived with only chest compressions until I arrived at the ER. I agreed, of course, but I knew different. Grams had said, " _It's your choice, dear. Stay here or return_."

Being a track star and honor student, I wanted to return.

And so I did.

I blink away these thoughts and slurp in a mouthful of milky flakes while peering at the track star on the cereal box. The glint of excitement in the athlete's eyes is familiar. But the feeling of adrenaline and winning races is a distant memory.

Gardenia perfume invades the kitchen as Mom scurries in and fills up a travel mug with coffee. She smiles while sinking a teaspoon of sugar into the mug. "Aimee, aren't you excited?"

I place my bowl in the dishwasher and nod. "I guess. I'm mainly looking forward to painting at Uncle's pond."

Mom takes a paper sack out of the refrigerator and hands it to me. It's been part of our daily routine for as long as I can remember. She sends me into the world each day with a kiss and a packed lunch.

"Uncle Pete will pick you up early, but you'll still need lunch. The artist must be fed." She winks.

"Thanks, Mom."

Her cell blasts some upbeat tune from the ancient past. "Let's go. I'm presenting closing arguments in court this morning."

I swim in Mom's flowery wake as we walk out the door and into the garage.

Mom answers her cell, connecting it to the car's hands-free device. "I'll be at the office in twenty minutes."

As usual, I push in my ear buds to avoid listening to lawyers' ramblings while we drive. Hopefully, junior year will be better if I get a car, like she promised.

Mom raises her voice. "I'm ready . . . I know, I know . . . it's our responsibility."

I gaze out the car window. My pulse quickens and my stomach churns. Even with the music distraction, I still feel Mom's emotions. I let my mind drift as she navigates morning traffic.

Cancer took Grams' life five years before my NDE. But when I saw her that day, she looked beautiful, like in the framed picture Mom keeps on her bookshelf. " _It'll be hard, darling,"_ Grams had said. _"But I hope you'll decide to return_. _There are still things for you to do."_

A couple of years later and I still have no clue what "things" she meant.

I glance at Mom gripping the steering wheel and feel her nervousness and anxiety. It must be a big legal case for her today.

I remember the day I left the hospital. It was a shock, feeling the energy from things around me. It's like suddenly feeling hot in an air-conditioned room or feeling chilly when it's ninety-degrees outside. It's hard to explain, exactly, how I can feel excitement coming from saw grass swaying in the wind and strength emanating from oak trees baking in sunshine. I'm not psychic or anything, but my intuition is off the charts. It sounds ill and delusional, which is why I'll never talk about it.

The first day back to school after my heart surgery was the worst. I quickly realized the people around me were crushing me with their emotions. Feelings of worry, excitement, anger, love, and hate swirled the school hallways from my classmates and hung over my head in class. Trying to concentrate on schoolwork while being flattened by so many emotions all at once was impossible in the beginning.

At first, my friends had been supportive when I needed my space. But soon they realized I'd changed for good. Gossiping about Kelly's ridiculous shoe purchase and texting about Sharon and Roger hooking up after a Friday night football game became boring. Going to a pep rally to wait for the crazy kid to attack another mascot turned into a ridiculous waste of time. What's the point of rushing around, worrying about what people think, or worrying about saying something stupid? All the little things used to stress me out. Not anymore. Now people do.

Mom drives the car up to the curb and stops in front of Theodore High School in the heart of Franklinville, Arkansas. Waves of anticipation and excitement from kids walking through the school gates roll over me.

I hesitate before pulling out my ear buds and fight the overwhelming urge to run. I'd usually pretend I was sick and ask Mom to take me home, but today is the last day of the school year.

I can do this.

A man's voice from Mom's office blasts from the car speakers.

Mom mouths to me, "I'll call you later." Then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek, exactly like she always does.

At the start of freshman year, I'd been the girl who set track records. I was the popular girl with friends, the fashion trendsetter, and the designated shoulder to lean on.

I was all of that before I died.

But I was none of it after the doctors brought me back to life.

#  chapter two

Two voices moved into my skull six years ago and stayed. Not the fun, imaginary-friend kind. These voices are distinct. Clear. Talking whenever the hell they want. I've tried to make them leave, but nothing works. They just get more intense and argue, like I don't exist. Telling me what to do, what not to do.

Dr. Stewart talks to Mom as if I'm not sitting two steps away on his examination table inside Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital—the oldest building in Franklinville.

"Let's increase Reizo's dosage for six weeks." He pronounces each word with a heavy Russian accent. "We are dealing primarily with auditory hallucinations."

We?

Stewart likes to use big words, but I know what he means. He thinks I'm crazy.

"I will clear Reizo for the last day of school, but he must be monitored..."

Dr. Stewart rubs his shaved head and shifts his lanky frame from one black shoe to the other. "There is a possibility it is hereditary..."

I want to punch something when Mom's almond-shaped eyes well up with tears.

"Based on old family stories, Reizo's third great-grandfather had issues," Mom says. Her voice wavers like a slide guitar as she twists her brown ponytail with three fingers. "His name was Wesley Rush. He was one of the first settlers in Franklin County." She pauses as if to search for the right words. "When my husband was alive, he told me his Grandpa Wesley had been committed to a psychiatric hospital back in the late 1800's."

Mom clears her throat with a quick cough and adjusts the floral dress over her slim figure. "He heard voices too."

The doctor looks up from his clipboard and stares at Mom with cold blue eyes straight from Siberia. "I see." He scribbles something on a paper without looking.

From experience, I know distracting myself is the only way to get through the exam. I force a long deep breath and gaze at the only splash of color inside the white exam room and let my mind drift.

Just as I calm down, two voices start up in my head. In a failed attempt to get them to shut up a few years back, I named the lady voice Honesti and the guy voice Bouncer.

" _I told Reizo the meds would make him worse_ ," Honesti says in a soft voice.

_No kidding._ I straighten my back and readjust myself on the sheet of paper covering the exam table.

" _Poor Reizo. He was scared, wah_ ," says Bouncer in a husky rasp. " _Baby man is weak, ain't that right? He'll never be ready. Pathetic. Just tell Stewart to take a hike. Grab a needle. You know what to do._ "

_What a jerk._ I nearly tagged his voice "Mobster," but decided "Bouncer" was more accurate, since he pushes words in and out of my head whenever the hell he pleases.

I focus harder on the framed, crimson rose hanging at an angle as if it were wilting. Tracing the length of the petal edges with my gaze, I explore the picture like a honeybee searching dark voids for nectar.

"Wesley died after an accident not long after he was committed," Mom whispers to Dr. Stewart.

Bouncer continues. " _Don't blow it, pretty boy!_ "

"Died? Oh, I see." Stewart writes again on my chart and mumbles a series of big words. "Maybe we'll try a new medication for a few days."

Taking Stewart's constantly changing pill assortment has been the biggest mistake of my life. My world crumbled. No more voices, just hissing static, dizziness, and drowsiness. At first, the silence worked for me, but not long after, more side effects kicked in and my creativity turned to mush. The meds nuke my talent. I have zero energy. I'm dizzy all the time. I can't concentrate, sketch, draw, use spray-paint to make three-dimensional masterpieces with " _wildstyle_ " writing, or anything else artistically worthy.

Hell, when I'm on Stewart's meds, I can't even draw a simple oak tree. At best, I can barely manage a throw-up tag. Visualizing scenes to paint is impossible. Painting in 3D? No way. Drawing in two-dimensions? Hardly. I really had no choice—now I palm and flush the meds.

Some people do calculations in their head for a distraction. Rhyming words and poetry is what I do during examinations to distract myself. Lately it's been the same poem, over and over.

I am alive. I am dead. Dreams strive. Feelings shred.

" _Keep your cool_ ," says Honesti. " _Dr. Stewart is almost done_."

Keeping my mouth shut, I stare at the thorny rose stem and imagine it puncturing my skin. The last thing I need is Stewart suspecting I'm not taking his ridiculous pills.

Dr. Stewart continues. "He will need to be committed again if there is another incident of violence. You know this, yes?"

Hello! I can hear you, jerk wad.

Mom reluctantly nods as I press hard on my temples. _Dammit._ I can't spend my entire life with voices rambling all the time inside my head. But no way am I going to take Dr. Stewart's meds either.

The sun rises. The sun sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.

Adding color to the old brick and concrete around the city is my life. Creating works of art on public buildings and sidewalks is what I do. It's who I am.

The time passes. The light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.

I refuse to lumber around like a creative zombie with no skills. I've been through all the possibilities.

Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.

There's only one way to evict the trespassers.

Exit Plan.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

Cloud: How may I be of service, General?

>>run system check

running..............

Cloud: I am done with system check.

>>report

System Online

75 enforcers active

Keepers: 100%

Reckoners: Active

Cloud Memory: Online

Upload Status: Active

Download Status: Enabled

Pairing Status: Active

Experience bell curve status:

Perfect, Mode=Mean

Error rate: Nominal

Anomalies:

10 Enforcers missing

2 Reckoners communicating with one enforcer

Quantum Interference Detected

>>report special status

Password: *********

104 Followers Active

?Would you like to activate?

>>No

>>logout

Good-bye General

Login:

#  chapter three

Uncle Pete's pond reminds me of a postcard. A duck quacks on impact as it lands in the pond. Its mate splashes down nearby. Sprawling oak trees shade overgrown shrubs. Patches of tall green grass, sprinkled with bright white flowers, dance in the light alfalfa breeze.

After accumulating enough extra credit to leave school after second period, school is officially out for summer. Eleven weeks of solitude to paint and take in the wonders of nature at the pond.

I move my paintbrush in a sweeping movement to the melody of songbirds and the hum of honeybees buzzing from flower to flower. With no one else around, I know the excitement I'm feeling is my own.

Energy from living creatures around the pond inspires me. It's impossible to spend time at the pond during the school year. Mainly because of homework, shorter days, and doing the accounting books on the weekend for Mom's boyfriend, ex-Marine Hank Mullins.

Hank runs a one-person tow-truck company in Franklinville. He's a large-framed man at six-foot-five with thick, weathered hands that come from spending fourteen hours a day towing disabled vehicles around the county.

Mom used to do the accounting for Hank's business, until she passed the Arkansas Bar Exam. Now she's a partner at a law firm and gives occasional lectures at the junior college on weekends, so I'm stuck organizing the books for Hank. Not my idea of fun, but I don't mind helping out.

Sitting on a fold-up lawn chair, I adjust a thick sheet of paper on my easel. To my right: oil paints, acrylics, and brushes, organized in one of Hanks's old fishing tackle boxes. On my left: a small tin lunch box with a bottle of water and a bag of trail mix.

Oak tree branches twist and turn like sprawling arms embracing the sun. I use my thin-tipped brush to capture the bark's texture.

My cell phone buzzes and plays Bach's Cello Suite No. 1. Vibrant. Peaceful. Soothing.

When Grams was alive, she loved classical music. Ever since my death and return two years ago, I'm also a fan. Mostly of Johann Sebastian Bach's cello suites and Frédéric Chopin's piano. I'd never heard of them before my heart problem. There's something amazing about the power of Chopin's solo piano and the cello's warm, supernatural purity and its passionate tenor. The music reminds me of lingering vibrations, dancing like dandelion seeds caught in a wind gust. The way it swirls like a sudden breeze across the pond is magical.

I answer my phone. "Hello?"

"Just checking in, honey," Mom says. "How was your last day?"

Mom and I don't need to talk about why I wanted to leave school before everyone else today. Last year I ended up in the office, shaking from emotional overload, until Mom could pick me up and drive me home.

"School was fine. Uncle picked me up right on time."

"Good. Are you painting?"

Mom encourages me to follow my passions, as long as it's not anything I used to love, like competitive sports. Painting qualifies in her book as acceptable.

"Yeah. The oak trees look amazing today."

There's something magical that happens to me when I'm painting ducks gliding across the pond's surface, floating water lilies, a turtle's nose barely above the water, or a curious crawdad lurking in the shallows. It's as if I become the gliding duck, floating lily, turtle, and crawdad. If I'm lucky, I might even become a lizard, doing pushups on the big rock near the muddy bank.

I'm at peace when I paint at the pond.

"Be home by six, okay?"

I dip my brush in a small plastic cap filled with brown paint.

"I will."

"I'm fixing your favorite tonight. Hank is taking the night off for your end-of-school-year dinner celebration," Mom says. "It's tradition, after all."

That means turkey meatloaf for three. I feel my mouth watering. "Mashed sweet potatoes too? With brown sugar and lots of butter?"

I lightly brush the painting to add tall grass.

"You got it—" Mom says. "Oh shoot. I need to go, honey. Love you."

"Love you too, Mom. Good luck in court."

I set my cell down and notice how the midday sun brightens the color of the trees. I mix three colors together to match it and then stroke my brush on the paper until it needs more paint. After the brush tip touches, paint spreads on the paper like an expanding inkblot. Maybe I'm supposed to be an artist? Paint landscapes. Portraits. Roses.

I dip my brush again, remembering how colorful and vibrant the pond had looked during my visit with Grams. I still remember the excitement in her eyes, hoping I'd return to my life with Mom and Hank. I felt so immersed in love and joy.

As much as I love painting alone at the pond, I doubt avoiding people is what Grams had in mind.

#  chapter four

I grab my ears as if it will help.

"Admit it loser!" Bouncer shouts. "You're weak!"

Of course, it doesn't help. "Fine, I admit it! I freaked."

Moser stops his math lecture mid-sentence. His eyes lock onto me.

Epic failure. Twenty-five kids in the cramped classroom swivel their heads and glare. A buzzing sound radiates from fluorescent tubes overhead while whispers whip through the classroom like a brush fire. My lungs burn, but I don't show it.

I sit back, fold my arms, and peer at Moser, serious but non-threatening. There's a subtle difference, I learned, the first time I was arrested. If I appear too intense, I'm considered a threat.

"Mr. Rush, do you have a question?" asks Moser with steel-hardened eyes. Even though it's the last day of the school year, Moser's jerky motions tell me he's worrying I might get violent.

"Nope," I say, shaking my head and forcing a smile.

Whispers. Pointing fingers. Silent stares. Waiting, watching, preparing their cell phones to record. Most days I can tune them out, but not today.

Sitting near the classroom door, football captain Jason points and whispers to Josh, the Hulk, as if he's calling a football play on the goal line. They'd probably rush me if I made any fast moves.

Zeke Sarov sits at the desk to my right and taps on his cell. The dude looks like he should be the chess club president with his black-framed glasses, short black hair, and long sleeve t-shirt with three buttons. He's the only senior I know who's taking Moser's Algebra class this semester in order to graduate.

Zeke may look like the average nobody geek, but teachers, school officials, and law enforcement go out of their way to help him. Most people think it's because Zeke's dad runs the biggest property corporation in Arkansas. It gives him implied power. Some even say Zeke volunteered to go to public school just to help his dad get elected as Governor next year.

"Watch yourself," says Honesti. "If your teachers think you're talking to yourself again, they'll ship you off to Willowgate."

"New rules," says Bouncer. "Talking to us in public—serious no can do. Whispering—off limits. Singing to us—priceless."

"Will you be serious?" asks Honesti. "You know Reizo can't sing."

"But he has to talk to us," says Bouncer, chuckling under his breath. "Who else will train him?"

I feel like screaming. We've been over it a million times. People freak when I talk to the voices.

"Sorry, Mr. Moser." My voice sounds as if it squeaks out of a giant party balloon.

Embarrassing.

Murmurs bounce off the walls and grow into laughs. Raymond kicks the leg of my desk chair from behind. I'm about to turn around, but I don't.

"Dude." Zeke whispers to me.

What the hell does he want?

"I have an extra ounce if you need something to relax," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"First ounce is free if you promise to buy five more." Zeke winks.

I shake my head and turn away. Marijuana from Zeke is the last thing I need.

Moser continues. "You've completed all the material for Algebra two..."

A ball of paper hits the back of my head, causing me to tense up. I want to take the ball of paper and shove it down Raymond's throat. But I keep cool. "Jerk—" I mutter, making sure Moser doesn't hear.

Zeke chuckles. "Pathetic."

"Careful, brother man," says Bouncer. "He'll kick your punk ass."

"Just forget it," says Honesti.

Screw them all.

I flip open my sketchbook and gaze at my latest tag design. Too bad I'll never finish it on a cement canvas. Anonymous 3D street art is my thing. Tunnels with on-coming trains painted on the side of old brick buildings. Sprayed sidewalks opening into painted sinkholes. No one in Franklinville knows I'm the infamous 3D tagger, except for Mom and the cops, thanks to my court-sealed records. But I could care less.

Whispers of disappointment circulate the classroom. There'll be no crazy Reizo show today. _Idiots._ I'd love to see how they'd handle voices inside their empty brain buckets.

"That's the answer," says Honesti. "Writing in your sketchbook, it's the safest way."

"Yeah, right," says Bouncer. "We talk, he takes notes. He can poke himself with a pencil while he's at it," whispers Bouncer. He raises his voice. "Or better yet, his eye!"

I cringe.

"Be nice to Reizo," says Honesti. "He still has a lot to learn."

"Shut the hell up!" shouts Bouncer. "Face it, Reiz is barely passing his Algebra class."

I hate it most when they act like I don't exist, making me feel lower than low, emptier than empty. It's hard to think, let alone concentrate, when the voices are carrying on. Bouncer will celebrate when I'm gone.

"Stop it!" I shout.

_Aw, man._ Nervous laughs erupt around the classroom like heated-up microwave popcorn. Moser's shoulders stiffen as he paces across the front of the classroom, glancing at me every few steps.

I'm sure Moser has seen the vid of me going crazy on Simon Taylor, Theodore High's six-foot tall mascot. I admit it. The entire thing was a big mistake. Simon wore the full grizzly bear mascot outfit at the homecoming pep rally in the beginning of freshman year. Bouncer encouraged me, and my survival instincts kicked in. The football players and cheerleaders had finished their speeches when I heard that bear growling. I bolted across the courtyard and planted my shoulder into the grizzly. Simon folded like a lawn chair.

Reizo Rush: sixteen-year-old secret 3D artist and mascot stopper. I was the most popular kid in school for nearly thirty-seconds until everyone realized I'd lost it.

Crazy Kid became my nickname _._ It took four football linemen to pull me off the hairy beast. Simon received a concussion. I ended up the lucky winner of a one-week suspension from Principal Rutworth . . . again.

I focus harder on Moser and pretend Algebra is the world's most important class.

Just as Moser's shoulders relax, Raymond pokes me in the back with a sharp pencil.

I grimace. Raymond has crossed the line. _One more and I'm going—_

"Choke yourself and get it over with," says Bouncer. "You're pathetic."

"Just put up with it for a little longer," says Honesti. "It's the last day of the year."

I decide to chill. It'd be a fool's move to lash out at Raymond, the next aspiring rap artist of the century. Tagger verses rapper. I wouldn't stand a chance. Raymond has friends. I hear voices. It'd just give the dude more material.

I deliver a grizzly-killer snarl, but keep my fists to myself.

Raymond's smile reverses course. The classroom goes silent. Being unpredictable gives me the advantage today.

"Nice one," says Honesti.

It always starts the same way. Someone gets under my skin and pushes me until I freak out. Tit for tat, right? Wrong. I'm the one who gets suspended or taken away in cuffs. It's always the crazy kid's fault, the sick kid, yours truly.

"Glad he's off the meds," says Honesti.

"He's still going to blow it," says Bouncer. "Launch your pencil at your face, loser."

I press down hard on my pencil until it snaps. All the haters are watching. Pointing at me. Laughing. Waiting for me to screw up.

I take out a new pencil and stare at the sketch of my latest tag: _Stairway to Heaven._ I usually plan my newest tag in Moser's class, but what's the point? It would have looked cool on the ten-story brick wall of the courthouse.

"Before I pass back your graded final," Mr. Moser says. "I want to encourage you to practice over summer break ..."

I nudge at my backpack and hear the bottle of my mom's pills rattle inside. The grassy bank around Murdock's pond is the one spot in the world where the voices go silent. I have no idea why that's the case. It was pure luck that I found the place. A few months back, I'd taken the long way home from school. One second the voices were chatting nonstop and the next they went silent when I passed the giant oak trees surrounding Murdock's pond.

The pond will be the perfect spot to exit.

Mr. Moser raises his voice. "I've added an exercise sheet with a page of online resources..."

Before long, the last day of school is over and I'm walking two-miles to Murdock's Ranch, the oldest ranch outside the city limits of Franklinville. Normally, it's a short bus ride home, but today is the day.

"Way to go on Moser's math quiz," says Honesti.

"Sixty-one percent?" asks Bouncer. "Pathetic."

"It was way better than the previous quiz," says Honesti. "He's improving."

"Improving?" Bouncer asks. "Is that what you call it?"

I don't respond.

"Weak ass fool!" Bouncer shouts.

I hate it most when Bouncer yells. He usually gives me a pounding headache. But this time it doesn't bother me as I focus on my Exit Plan.

"The bus driver was supposed to monitor you today," says Honesti. "Remember?"

Honesti is right. The bus driver expected me to sit in the front seat on the ride home. But ditching the bus won't matter after today. I ignore the voices.

"Where we headed, Reiz?" asks Honesti. "Getting some air, are we?"

I rub my face and keep walking.

"Wait," says Bouncer with panic in his voice. "Reizo, stop."

"He's going to the pond—" says Honesti.

I smile and take off in a sprint.

As soon as I reach the oak trees marking the outer boundary of the pond, the voices go silent. Gone. It's such a strange sensation. Like turning off a radio after hours of broadcasting noise in the background. I instantly feel lighter. _Relieved_.

I slow to a walk and smell the scent of gardenias, which is weird since there are no gardenias anywhere on Murdock's ranch.

I see a girl. _Oh, man._ She's sitting near the pond with a brush in her hand and a canvas in front of her.

As I approach, I recognize the girl. It's smiling Aimee, the full-figured girl with glossy-black hair, side-swept bangs, and bushy eyebrows. She's the girl who almost died at school a couple of years ago.

_Painting at the pond?_ It's the worst timing ever—of all the days.

I hesitate when I notice her aquamarine eyes, the tiny brown freckles sprinkled across her nose, and her glistening, dark red lips. She isn't wearing much make-up, but she doesn't need it. The girl is way cuter than I remember.

"Hi there," she says with a wide smile, holding the paintbrush away from her painting. She's wearing denim shorts and a loose ruffled white blouse over a red tank top that matches her lipstick. Silver sparkles on white polish covers two pinky fingernails while her other nails have been polished to match her tank top.

_Hell._ Turning around now isn't an option. My plan will have to wait.

"Hey," I say with a stupid half-wave and gaze at her painting.

The texture of the oak tree branch is full of mad detail, with careful shading that gives the scene an afternoon feel—impressive. The girl has talent.

"You like it?" she asks. A touch of red highlights her cheeks.

"Yeah. Not bad. I didn't know you were an artist."

She giggles nervously and dips her paintbrush. "Actually, you don't know anything about me."

"Fair point," I reply. "I suppose the same goes for you, huh?"

She continues painting. "I suppose."

Aimee's eyes sparkle like sunlight dancing across the pond.

"Your first time at the pond?" I ask.

"No. I've just been too busy to spend time here during the school year. What about you?"

"A few months ago I found the place when I cut through Murdock's ranch. It's full of wild color."

_Now what?_ I feel like a dork just standing here, kicking at the dirt. Kind of like the time I sat down at a lunch table and everyone stopped talking, got up, and left. Awkward. I just sat there alone, eating a green apple.

But with the voices silent, I feel lighter and more clear than normal. I lower my voice. "The only time I feel alive is when I'm painting."

Aimee stops painting and stares at me for a moment, then she leans her head to one side and smiles. "Van Gogh, right? You're quoting Vincent Van Gogh."

I smirk and nod.

There's a curious glint in her eyes. "I don't say everything, but I paint everything."

I like this girl.

I rub at my chin. "Let me guess . . . Picasso?"

She smiles. "Yep. So you paint?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of." I want to slap myself on the forehead. It's a lame response, but I hadn't planned on talking about art today. Hell, I hadn't planned on talking period. Let alone talking to a girl at the pond.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Fair question. I'm about to turn around and walk away, but there's something different about her. Something interesting. I decide to stick around. "It's complicated."

She stares.

I feel like she might be trying to read my mind—good luck with that. I grin. Bouncer would have a party inside her head.

"I sketch."

"What sort of sketches?"

"Abstract mostly. Three-dimensional landscapes. Death. Heaven. Hell. Flying cows and candy canes. You know, the basics."

I pick up a flat rock and toss it, trying to skip it across the pond as if I'm cool.

It hits the water and sinks.

#  chapter five

D _eath? Heaven? Hell?_

I prepare to grab my phone and call Hank if he makes any unexpected moves. I recognize the boy. He's the one everyone calls Crazy Kid. He talks to himself at school.

Hank might be working, but he always answers when I call.

Reizo turns around after throwing a rock into the water like a second grader. I doubt the frogs are impressed.

He looks me straight in the eye with intensity and boldness. "I dream of painting and then I paint my dream."

I relax when I feel warm energy radiating from him. It also helps that I recognize the quote. But still, I hadn't expected this feeling I'm getting from him. "Another Van Gogh. I like that one too."

Reizo glances down at his feet.

I smile and brush my painting with a touch of blue. "Most people I know who sketch carry around a notebook. How about you?"

There's something odd about him, and I try not to look at him again, but fail miserably. A black t-shirt hangs loosely on his six-foot tall frame. I've never noticed how broad his shoulders were at school. With such a muscular build, he could easily play sports. Long brown hair frames his olive skin. Chiseled cheeks. Haunting hazel eyes and a sweet smile cause me to stare.

He's better looking than Jonathan James, the football god star quarterback. If Reizo weren't nuts, he'd probably have all my old girlfriends checking out the tight blue jeans he wears.

There's something unique about him. Intense. Weird. My feeling meter detects confusion and pain.

He fidgets and turns to leave, but abruptly changes course and walks toward me.

I touch my phone, reminding myself where it is.

He takes off his backpack and pulls out a leather notebook, then hands it to me.

After setting my paintbrush brush down, I flip open the notebook. _OMG_. His sketches are so cool. Angelic clouds and colorful landscapes, fiery underground cave scenes, tombstones hovering above the page.

As I continue thumbing through the sketches, I realize they're all drawn in three dimensions. Each picture reminds me of a page in a pop-up book.

"These are really good."

Reizo shrugs. I see sweat beads on the top of his forehead. _Nervous?_ That surprises me.

"Ever think about using paints?" I ask.

"I do," he says. "Use paints, that is."

"Oh?"

"Mainly spray. Easier to cover large surfaces."

Tagging. He must be a tagger. Come to think of it, I've seen some of these images before.

"Large, like on a wall?" I ask.

"I call it a gray canvas." He chuckles.

I feel his energy change, gentle and sincere.

"So you're the 3D tagger?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I recognized the fiery hell sketch. It was the tag on the firehouse door that made the news, right?"

His smile grows. Waves of warm energy radiate from him. "Yep."

"I remember the story, but the media didn't ID you. They caught you, right?"

"Well, not exactly. A block away the cops arrested me when they saw yellow paint all over my fingertips. Circumstantial evidence, in my opinion." He rolls his eyes. "I agreed to a plea deal. Probation."

Reizo takes back his sketchbook.

I pick up my brush, dip it in paint, and then apply it to the canvas.

"Look, I have to go. Nice talking with you . . . Oh, and by the way," Reizo says with a smile, "branches turn violet on a sunny day and the top leaves on your tree should match the sky color . . . Later." He turns and jogs away.

"Wait—"

Reizo ignores me and continues on.

There's something electrifying about his energy, shifting from excitement to worry, from simple to edgy. It pulls me in, but it doesn't crush me. That's a first.

I stand up and shout, "I'm Aimee!"

He glances back at me. "I know. I'm Reizo. At least for today."

His jog turns to a sprint.

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#  chapter six

I replay the encounter with Aimee. Anger should be what I'm feeling about the smiling girl who screwed up my plan, but I'm curious instead. She actually thought my sketches were cool.

I adjust the rope on the pulley that's secured to the top of the courthouse fire escape and lean back to observe my latest masterpiece. The gray courthouse wall now pops with color. It turned out better than my sketch. _Stairway to Heaven._ The judge will seriously remember me.

"You're going to fall," says Honesti.

"Jump," says Bouncer. "Dive on your head."

_Jerk_.

The voices continue rambling nonstop, polluting my thoughts and freezing my brain. _Screw Bouncer._ No way am I going to jump. I'll make my exit when and where I want, but not here.

"Shut the hell up!" I scream as loudly as I can.

"Keep your voice down!" whispers Honesti.

"Don't you scream at me, boy!" shouts Bouncer.

"Easy!" yells Honesti. "Will you stop?"

The voices continue to argue.

My head starts to pound, stabbing my brain again and again. I feel a headache sprout and grow until it's piercing the back of my eyes.

"Lower your voices!" I yell louder than Bouncer's shouts.

Incredibly, it works. They listen and shut up.

Hand over hand. Grip. Release. Grip. Release. I lower myself into position in front of the lower right corner of my latest 3D masterpiece tag.

The gray Franklin County courthouse has officially received a facelift: _Stairway to Heaven_. The stairway image disappears upward into a cluster of white puffy clouds, light ray streaks, and golden sunshine. The piece is shaded and painted to trick the viewer's eye into believing the scene is three real-life dimensions. It is by far my best piece ever.

I spray my personal wildstyle mark, " _REIZO_."

"The place where judges are judged and taggers rule." I mutter. "I'd enjoy sentencing Judge Samuels for being a jerk. I'd sentence him to one year of tagging, the most heavenly of community services. I'd make him add color to heaven's cinder blocks. I wonder what he'd paint on them?"

"He'd probably hire a real painter to do the work," says Bouncer. "Not a lame punk like you."

"I think Reizo is very talented," says Honesti.

I look downward. A five-story fall would be quick.

Maybe Bouncer has a point? A new Exit Plan?

"Do it, brother man!" shouts Bouncer, as if he's watching me. "Before the 3 a.m. drive-by."

Bouncer's sudden outburst rattles me. I nearly fall, but manage to grab ahold of the rope.

Not here. Not now. Go to hell, Bouncer.

Besides, it'd be way too messy compared to Murdock's epic pond. Tomorrow I'll do it.

Eternal naptime.

I lower myself until my feet reach the ground. I decide to leave the pulleys behind since I won't need them anymore. For some reason I can't explain, I collect my rope and pull it over one shoulder. _Habit, I guess._

I adjust my backpack and bolt. After three steps, my head starts pounding. A migraine is coming on. But I don't slow down.

In and out of the shadows I run. My bed is a mile away—Wild West Apartments, low-income housing for families in need.

"Can't you run faster?" says Honesti. "You better move."

"He's slower than a mule," says Bouncer. "Just give up!"

"He is not slow!" yells Honesti.

"Kick yourself," adds Bouncer.

My brain churns like an ice cream-maker mixing a semisoft mess. I need to hurry before I collapse or black out. _Oh, man._ This headache is bad. Melting down on the rough streets around my neighborhood is not an option. I push myself to run faster.

"Please hurry, Reizo!" yells Honesti. "You can make it."

Sweat runs down my face as my thoughts drift.

I remember when Honesti suggested I put my art on display. " _Something to focus on,"_ she'd told me. " _Spray colors in layers of fine spray to blend and mix them together on the walls_."

The idea worked surprisingly well.

When the cops caught me tagging, I confessed. But getting caught didn't stop me from going out a few weeks later to perfect my 3D angelic tombstone creation on the bell tower at City Hall.

In my opinion, City Hall needed to show respect to Franklinville's ancient city cemetery at the edge of town. The piece looked epic from the perspective of people at school, but the media reported that it was the work of a satanic maniac. Go figure.

Then I spruced up the local Burger Shack, where most kids from Theodore High go after Friday night football games. "Who knew the media would think giving cows assault weapons to protect themselves from bastard butchers would be in bad taste? How'd those reporters like to be freaking cows?"

Clearly, people don't want to admit there's realness in my art—truth in visual form. If the judge got sentenced to milk a cow and then slaughter it to make cheeseburgers, he'd give up meat too. Maybe he'd even give up milk.

People lie to themselves all the time, brainlessly existing in their gray world.

I got busted again during my next project—the firehouse. Who knew there'd be a fire at 3:33 a.m., just as I finished spraying fierce 3D flames from hell on the big black door of the station? The piece turned out awesome and made the evening news.

The media called it satanic again. A few firefighters said it was rad and some thought it was cool. Two cops didn't give a shit when they took me away in cuffs.

My head throbs and tears run from my eyes. The mega-massive brain-freeze grows more intense, but I keep jogging. I grab at my head and stumble, knocking over a trashcan.

"Cows with assault weapons?" says Honesti.

"Brother man don't get it!" says Bouncer. "He too stupid!"

"I get what Reiz was trying to say," says Honesti. "I guess."

"Brother man needs a slap," says Bouncer. "Slap yourself, boy!"

"Lower your voice," says Honesti.

"Stop!" I yell. "I hate you both!"

Two dogs bark as I run close to a chained link fence.

"Hate us?" asks Honesti. "Really?"

"You don't deserve to breathe," says Bouncer. "Hater boy!"

After a few more minutes, I don't understand what the voices are saying anymore as they continue to rant on and on, back and forth. It's worse than an Olympic curling event gone mad, sweeping, crazy people coaxing gray stones to move faster. Yelling at a rock as if it understood.

I run with both hands over my ears. "I'm almost home."

#  chapter seven

Chilly mornings at the pond are my favorite time of day. Watching the tall saw grass swaying and fluffy clouds floating across the sky.

Great Uncle Pete runs the ranch that's been in the Murdock family for over a hundred and fifty years. We all pitch in to help him manage it from time to time. Uncle likes to tell people that collecting cow pies bought him his first tractor. He thinks everyone should spend a summer or two working on a ranch.

Just before summer break, he asked if I'd paint him a picture of the pond. Told me to take all summer if I needed. I'm pretty sure Mom put him up to it.

The lawn chair and easel are where I left them yesterday. It only takes a few minutes to set up my paints and fill a Mason jar with pond water. A new painting is on my agenda for today. Dark green water in the center, lighter near the grass-covered mud bank. Breezy ripples riding the surface. I'll call it _Pondscape_.

I can't stop thinking about Reizo. His intense energy radiated in waves like the rhythm of my cell's ringtone—Bach on the cello. Low pitch. High pitch. Long note. Short note. Repeat.

I dip my brush in green paint and apply it to my mixing board, which is next to a small patch of black. I blend colors for the pond's middle.

_Reizo Rush._ His half-smile shrug with a reluctant wave.

A fish breaks the surface in an echoing snap, swallowing a small fly. Breakfast.

The image of the fish consuming the fly in one swift move lingers in my mind as my teeth crush a granola bar. I dip my brush into black and add a fish outline lurking under the surface.

I don't get it. The pond is secluded. Most people in Franklinville don't even know it exists, but Reizo found it.

I glide my brush tip smoothly over the paper's surface to the rhythm of a solo cello. Bach's Cello Suites, No. 3 in G Major: Gigue playing on my cell. I love the emotion in it all.

Long stroke. Short stroke. Parallel. Semicircle. Dip. Paint. Flow.

My mind drifts as I paint to the emotion of the solo cello, thinking about my NDE visit with Grams. Brilliant colors. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple. Golden light. I felt so much love and joy. Warmth.

Near the pond, Grams sat on a lawn chair waving. But it wasn't this pond. It was more like a divine duplicate of this pond. I found myself sitting on a lawn chair next to her. I gazed at rays of light touching everything around us, connecting us, flowing through us.

" _Be fearless and follow your passions_ ," she told me. " _Live to experience. Paint your life one frame at a time, scene by scene. Most of all, my dear Ames, love with everything you have. There is more for you to do, child_."

A flash brings me back to the present moment. The pond before me returns to focus. I hear the richness of the cello playing.

Fast. Intense. Dip. Stroke. Faster. Heart racing. Long. Short. Breathing rapid.

Tears trickle down both cheeks.

I recall the overwhelming emotion I felt when I was with her. The love I felt.

I paint faster. Adding more color. Stroke. Glide. Semicircle.

Faster. And faster until I stop mid stroke and stare upward, crying out, "Oh Grams. Grams. I—"

I drop my brush and sob into my palms. But I'm not sad. I'm not angry. I'm not scared. I'm overwhelmed.

A moment passes and my breathing slows. My hands steady. I pick up my brush and slowly apply paint.

"I know it happened, Grams," I whisper as if she can hear me. "Just as the pond is in front of me now, I know it."

My heart stopped. I died that day. Then I came back to life and woke up in the recovery room with a nurse standing over me. My death was documented in medical records.

"I know my visit with you was real," I whisper. "I heard your words."

It was a joyful experience visiting Grams, overwhelming love. But even with such awesome feelings, I still wanted to come back.

Tears stream down both cheeks. It wasn't a dream or some drug induced delusion. Realer than real, I remember everything in such vivid detail, everything, except one thing, the most important thing.

"What am I supposed to do, Grams?" I shout as loudly as I can, causing two ducks in the pond to take flight.

A moment passes and an unnatural silence rolls over the pond, as if all the creatures are waiting for Grams to respond.

But an answer doesn't come.

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# chapter eight

When Mom opens the blinds in my room, it takes a second for me to see she's wearing her gray maid's uniform and thick white work shoes. Her long brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, like she keeps it when she's working.

"Feeling better, sweetie?" Mom wipes the dresser with a rag and grabs my small trashcan, as if she was at one of her housecleaning jobs.

I sit up and yawn. My muscles ache, but the migraine is gone. "How long?"

"It was a bad one this time, honey. You even needed a frozen bag of peas." Mom looks away and picks up a sock on the floor. "Is the headache gone?"

I nod and rub my stiff neck.

"Good."

My gaze intensifies. "How long, Mom?"

"Oh, don't worry about that now," she says, gathering more of my dirty clothes. "It's summer. Dr. Stewart wants to see you tomorrow. But I think we'll wait until your scheduled appointment. You seem better today."

"That's fine with me."

Dr. Stewart is no friend of mine. From day one, I swear Stewart has been searching for a flaw to justify locking me up at Willowgate forever. He succeeded a few times too, after I got caught tagging and talked to the voices when I was in handcuffs. But Mom always manages to get me discharged within a few days.

I try to remember what happened before the migraine hit. _Courthouse painting. Pain. Collapsing on my bed._ I only remember fragments.

I raise my voice a little louder, but not much. Being disrespectful never works with Mom. It just makes everything worse. "Will you please tell me how long I've been in bed?"

Mom stops cleaning and peers at me as if she's trying to read my mind and simultaneously tell my fortune. "Two days, Reizo." She lets out a loud sigh. "Do you need me to stay home with you today? I can if you want."

"What? I missed two days?" I groan and fall back onto my pillow. "No. I'll be fine."

"Good. I'll check on you in between jobs, okay?"

I nod, and then realize I don't hear the voices. Not even whispers. Just emptiness. The silence feels heavy.

Hell. Mom gave me meds.

"You need to take your medication at lunch time," she says. "Noon. I have cereal for you on the table and a sandwich for lunch in the refrigerator. Promise me you won't forget to take your meds?"

My heart stops and then starts up all at once. _Did she look in my backpack?_

"I'll be fine." I avoid promising. Taking meds that make me brainless is the last thing I'll be doing after she goes to work. Mom doesn't understand how creating art is like breathing for me. She'll never understand. No one will. Adding color to the gray is my entire life.

Mom walks toward the bedroom door, stops, and turns toward me. She stares without moving for a few long seconds while the lines across her forehead deepen.

"What is it?" I ask.

Tears flood her eyes. "I'm worried about you. That's all." She straightens herself up, smoothing out her gray uniform as if her hands are an iron. "I'll be home at six, okay? I'll make you some soup before I leave again for the second shift. I've got a new office to clean tonight."

I feel like crap that Mom works so much, but it's not like someone knocks on our door and randomly gives us cash. I really want to help. I'd even get a job. But no one around town wants to hire a crazy, especially not a mascot-maiming teenage boy. I'm pretty sure everyone in Franklinville has seen the grizzly-killer take down video. Being famous in a bad way limits my options.

"Okay," I mutter.

"You sure you'll be alright?"

"Yeah."

"Good." She darts back to me, delivers a kiss on my cheek, and then disappears out of the room.

I stare up at the ceiling, waiting to hear the sound of the front door.

No voices. No Bouncer. No Honesti. I should smile, but I'm not happy.

When the front door shuts, I push myself out of bed to check my backpack. I unzipped it in a hurry _._ The bottle and the pills are still there.

Epic reset.

My plan is back on.

#  chapter nine

The air is perfectly still this afternoon at the pond _._

"Who's there?" I ask.

There's no response. I hear only the bushes swoosh thirty feet away from me, as if the wind is forcing them to move.

Could it be stranger? A coyote? The crazy kid?

I ready my cell phone to call Hank, but realize that's stupid, since it'd take him at lease thirty minutes to get here. I prepare to take off running towards Uncle's house.

I hear the noise again. Rustling. Footsteps. Someone or something is definitely getting closer.

"Hello?" I say louder.

Blood pumps through my veins with force. I forget to breathe. I'm ready to run. A second before I take a step, a deep, bellowing groan echoes across the pond. Then I see her.

It's Uncle Pete's black and white milk cow, Miss Aggie.

I sigh and take another moment to calm down. A cloud of Old Spice cologne reaches me before I see Uncle Pete and I relax completely.

"Aimee?" Uncle Pete calls out.

I sigh. "Hi, Uncle. You had me a little freaked."

"Oh dear. Sorry about that." Uncle places a rope loosely around the old milk cow's neck and rubs her. "Come along, Miss Aggie. We should let Miss Aimee paint. She's busy working on my masterpiece."

Uncle is a nice old guy—seventy, maybe seventy-five. He spends most of his time tending to the animals and the land around the ranch and hardly any time on himself. Once in a great while, I'll find him sitting on his porch, smoking his old pipe and kicking his feet up. But those occasions have become fewer as he's gotten older.

"She's not bothering me. Besides, I think the pond is more hers than mine."

"You get back to your painting now. Your mom tells me you're quite the artist and I want to see for myself."

I shrug. "She exaggerates."

"Oh, knowing your mother, I doubt that very much."

I gesture toward my painting. "You want to take a look?"

Uncle Pete smiles. "Sure, I'd like that." He ties Aggie to an oak tree branch and walks over to me as he pulls reading glasses out of his blue denim shirt pocket. "Do I get this one?"

"Not sure yet. I want to give you the best one of the summer."

Uncle Pete peers through his thick glasses and mumbles something, then says, "I love the colors you used for the pond. By God, I think you've really captured it."

I smile and feel my face heat up. "Thanks, Uncle."

He continues gazing at the painting. "Your mother is a smart woman. You're an excellent artist."

Uncle Pete walks to the edge of the pond and looks out over the dark green water. His eyelids are pink around the edges. I pretend not to notice. But I ask anyway. "Is everything okay?"

Uncle Pete snaps out of his momentary trance and nods. "I apologize. Just old memories, that's all. I suppose thinking about the past is what you do when you get old."

"Memories?"

An awkward moment passes. Maybe I shouldn't have been so probing.

He rubs at his chin. "When I was your age, I used to come here, you know. I spent more hours than I can remember fishing for crawdad. Your grandma called them crawfish when she was alive, but I never saw 'em swim like no fish. A pinch of meat tied to a long string. That's all it took to catch 'em. Them mindless critters clung to it as if it was solid gold. Up, out, and straight into the water bucket they went, one by one. Momma turned 'em into meals during the hard times, you know: crawdad fettuccine, crawdad chowder, even crawdad cornbread. My mouth waters just thinking about it . . . How time flies, don't it now?"

"I loved Grams' pies. Especially during the holidays."

"Oh yeah, that grandmother of yours made the best apple pie in the county, probably even the state, if you ask me."

"My favorite was lemon meringue, but her chocolate pie was nearly as good." I feel my mouth water.

"I do miss her," he says with pain in his eyes. "I miss them both."

We've always been Uncle's only nearby family. Two funerals in three years, Mom said it had been hard on Uncle. First his wife, Auntie Dee, died from cancer, and then Grams died soon after.

Uncle taps a rock with his boot from the pond's bank and it plops into the water. "Spent a great deal of time dreaming here. A wonderful place, this pond . . . Been in our family for over a hundred-fifty years. Before that time, Wesley Rush owned all the land for miles all around Franklinville. They say he had himself a mansion right near here." Uncle Pete squirts out some spit away from the pond.

Gross.

"This pond was some kind of fancy lake back in the days before Wesley deeded the land to Grandpa Lester."

"What happened to the mansion?"

"Your Grams told me stories when I was a boy that the township mayor had flattened the place not long after Wesley got committed to the old lunatic asylum. Grandpa Lester took over the land. He worked it as his own." Uncle spits again but discreetly, so I don't get grossed out. But I'm still grossed out.

I look past the oak trees and watch grass swaying in the breeze. There's no evidence of any mansion.

"Tragic really. Poor old man. The stories say he wasn't the same after his wife, um, let me see. Her name was . . . Ethel, I think. They say Wesley completely fell apart after she passed during childbirth.

"His only son made out better than he did, that's for certain. Thomas was his son's name, kept Rush as his last name. But our great-grandparents raised the boy."

"What do you mean raised him?"

Uncle Pete's eyes are glossy, as if he's time traveling. "Your third great-grandfather, Lester Murdock, raised Wesley's son, Thomas. Wesley took a liking to Grandpa Lester and gave him most of the land you see around us."

"Why did Wesley get committed?"

"They say he heard voices. He was mentally ill or some such thing. Poor man died shortly after they stuck him to the asylum. That's when Grandpa Lester and Grandma Jane took in his son, Thomas. They also took on another thousand acres around where Wesley had lived before the township redistributed the rest of Wesley's holdings—the mayor never did find Wesley's will. Grams used to say if a Last Will and Testament existed, we might own all the land and historic buildings in Franklinville." He grins, as if imagining what it'd be like to own so much land. "Those was hard times in those days to raise an adopted baby, but Lester and Jane managed."

Uncle Pete's face goes blank. He squats down and picks up a handful of dirt, then lets it sift through his fingers. "It's a damned shame."

"What do you mean, Uncle?"

"This land has been in our family for over a century and a half. I can't work it no more and your mother can't afford to keep it. Times have changed, I'm afraid . . . I'm putting it on the market in the fall. The Isak Sarov Corporation wants to turn the land into some kind of housing community and golf course." He sighs and stands. "I suppose that makes sense."

Uncle Pete's words hit home. I gaze at the still pond, its lush surroundings, and guardian oaks.

I squint at him. "Can't you just get help?"

"Wish I could. The bigger problem is I can't afford to pay the taxes no more. The county keeps raising them every year. If I don't sell, they'll come in and take her next year anyhow."

I don't know what to say. The ranch has always been a place for me to spend summers. Horseback riding. Milking cows. Feeding chickens. Collecting eggs. Swimming. The pond was bigger in those days, before the drought.

Uncle suddenly snaps out of his time-traveling gaze. He looks at his pocket watch, then back to me. "Oh dear, look at the time. I best get Miss Aggie back into the barn. It's 'bout milking time."

I can't imagine the farm not being here. Where would Uncle Pete go? Where would Miss Aggie go?

"Thanks for the history lesson, Uncle. Mom never told me about Grandpa Lester."

He smiles. "This pond is all that's left of the lake. Damned drought. It shrinks every year."

Uncle walks back to the barn with Miss Aggie by his side, shaking his head and grumbling under his breath.

I dip my brush and turn up the volume on my cell phone.

I remember how beautiful Grams looked the day I died. Smiling so big with rosy cheeks and soft gray curls. Her entire body glowed with a magical shimmer. Each word she spoke felt as if it were wrapped in love and delivered with kindness. She filled me with excitement and joy, as if all my life's problems were simply experiences and there were many more experiences to live. She told me that any choice I make could never be the wrong choice. But with each choice I make, there are consequences.

She'd know how to help Uncle keep the ranch.

I dip my brush, then stroke to the rhythm of the cello vibrating from my cellphone. Dip. Stroke. Dip. Stroke.

I miss you, Grams.

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#  chapter ten

Midnight. I grip paint cans in both hands and shiver in front of another perfect gray canvas—the towering brick wall of Theodore High's gym.

Security drives by at 4 a.m. Mom comes home from her nightshift job at 5 a.m.

It's time to get busy.

With my eyes shut, I wait for an image to form. Spraying with meds in my system has never worked before, but I have to try one last time before returning to the pond to carry out my plan.

I wait. And wait for a vision to come. But nothing happens. All I visualize is blank grayness.

After twenty minutes, I finally give up. Nothing is happening. _Damned meds._ I'd hoped it would be different. I wanted it to be. But I still can't spray. I don't even know where to start.

I loosen my grip on the spray paint cans. "Bouncer? Honesti?"

Silence. Static. Nothingness.

I'm alone, a creative blank, a zombie. All I see is a brick wall. I try to make sense out of it. Why can't I paint when I'm on the meds? It feels like I'm trying to solve some kind of Moser math class truth equation relating to my sanity.

No meds equals creativity. No meds equals insanity. Insanity equals wicked-spray-beast. Meds equals no voices. Meds equal I suck.

Moser would be impressed with my effort, but I still can't figure out an acceptable solution. I'm sick of the bullshit. _Screw it_. I'm done. I shove the spray cans in my backpack and run.

Bouncer will get his wish when the sun comes up.

#  chapter eleven

I remember gazing down at my body as if I was watching a hospital reality show.

Code Blue. CPR. Code Blue.

Doctors pounded on my chest. I hovered in the corner above the room, watching the busy ER but feeling no pain. I just floated above it all. Hearing their panicked voices, but feeling calm. Watching stressed faces work. Feeling nothing but peace.

I drifted into a bright light like a moth in summertime. Drawn toward the glow—a beacon outside of a dark void. It sounds cliché, but the tunnel thing really happened. How did I feel so alive when I was dead?

My cell phone groans like a cello.

"Hello?"

"Just touching base, honey. How's your afternoon going?"

"Fine, Mom."

"I emailed a few pictures of your paintings to the art teacher at the junior college, Mrs. Hackett."

"You did?"

"Yes and guess what?"

"What?"

"She just called. She loves your paintings, honey!"

"Really?"

"Yeah, she wants to show them when you get about a dozen."

"Show them? To who?"

"To the kids on campus. Mrs. Hackett will help us organize an art showing in the library. You can get extra credit for doing it."

"How does that work?"

"A high school elective, I guess. I'm not sure. She'll talk to you about it when you're ready. Maybe this weekend we can meet with her?"

I notice the paint is beginning to dry around the edge of the painting. I dab my brush in more paint. "I better go, Mom. I'm almost done with a painting."

"Okay, dear. Just be home by five tonight, okay? I'm cooking again."

"Alright. What's for dinner?"

"Cheesy mac and ground gobble."

I smile. Mac and cheese with ground turkey.

"Quick and easy, but it'll stick to your ribs for days."

Mom usually adds a slab of cheddar into it, sometimes a few hot dogs. Sticking to my ribs is a nice way to describe the effects of her comfort food.

"Sounds good. Bye, Mom."

"Love you, honey."

Only a few more bushes to add and the painting will be done. I sit back with my arms folded and peer at it. It does look pretty good. I think I'm actually getting better with each painting I do. Mixing the colors is the key. Having the right brush, too. Once I'd figured those things out, my paintings started looking more life-like.

I wonder if I can make my paintings look more like Reizo's sketches. A 3D tree would be cool, maybe a 3D fish jumping out of the pond at the viewer? I laugh, imagining a life-like fish in the middle of a conservative pond painting. Massive shark teeth, large dark round eyes, and a top hat, maybe a small cane.

I wonder if he'll come back?

My mind drifts as I detail another bush.

He's cute. Shy even. I doubt he's crazy, probably just different. Aren't we all? There's nothing wrong with it. I can vouch for that.

Reizo Rush.

My stomach suddenly goes weightless and the ground feels shifty. _Weird._ Emotions hit me, one after the other. Uneasy. Nervous. Anxious. Scared. Worry. The intensity takes my breath away.

I hear bushes rustling again as if they're hit by the wind. _Miss Aggie? Uncle Pete?_ My heart takes off in a sprint jumping over a hurdle, then another, and another. I recognize the energy.

Reizo pushes through the bushes and gives me a quick wave, but doesn't smile.

A wave of heaviness hits me.

He doesn't look too pleased to see me.

_Oh hell._ My plan is burnt toast again.

Aimee doesn't hear me at first as she paints a landscape near the edge of the pond. But when I crunch a pile of dead leaves and emerge from the surrounding bushes, she glances over her shoulder.

I freeze and consider turning around and bolting, but what's the point? She's seen me already. I'll make up an excuse, then do an about face and rework my plan.

"Hi Reizo," Aimee says, as her blue eyes brighten. "What brings you to the pond this afternoon?"

"Just getting some air," I reply.

I try to force myself to turn around and walk away, but my feet saunter toward her and my body goes along for the ride.

_Wow._ Aimee's painting of the pond isn't bad. She brushes her canvas with two brushes, each with a different shade of green. I notice she's blended the top of the tree like I mentioned the last time I saw her. She has even added texture. _Props. Very nice._

She looks at me with wide eyes. "What do you think?"

I inspect the shading of the bushes she's painted around the pond and take longer than I should to respond. "It's good." Actually, its way better than good, but I play it cool and fold my arms. "Nice fish. Too bad it's not in 3D."

Honestly, her painting is awesome and her fish looks realistic, action contrasting with calmness, a slimy fish jumping out of the pond to snatch a hovering fly.

She examines her painting. "I was thinking the same thing. But I have no idea how to paint in 3D like you do."

Aimee peers at me as if she's trying to solve the world's hunger problems and I have an unlimited supply of cheeseburgers in my backpack.

This girl is seriously cute.

"Can you show me how you do it?" she asks softly.

_Show her?_ A slight tingle starts at the top of my spine, spreads to my shoulders, and ends up causing tremors in both hands. _Oh hell._ Of course she'd ask me when Stewart's drugs are flowing through my veins like kryptonite blood.

"Well, I wish I could. But—"

Aimee looks away. She doesn't try to conceal a huff. "Don't worry about it."

_Great, she hates me now._ My coolness freezes. _I'm an ass._

"No, I mean I'd help if I could. I, um..." I stammer like a damned fool. "The meds I take make it mostly impossible to sketch."

Her brow furrows. "What meds?"

Meds are the last thing I want to talk about. I don't want to tell her how the doctor's meds take the edge off everything I love to do. Or how Stewart says the meds might have negative side effects like " _lack of emotional expressiveness_."

Yeah right, that'd be really attractive. _Hi, I'm Reizo, the kid that lacks the ability to express my emotions. You want to make out?_

Even without Bouncer's rants in my head, I feel like a loser. I want to run and hide rather than talk about it. I'm crashing and burning and I know it.

Just as I'm about to give up and walk away, I think of an alternative when I see a dirty piece of string on the pond's bank. "Ever fish for crawdads?"

Aimee tilts her head. Then, as if an off-switch engages, she turns back to her painting and gracefully touches the paper with her brush. "Nope."

I straighten out the string. "Got any hot dogs?"

Aimee shakes her head no and smirks. "Right. Like I carry around hot dogs."

_Hot dogs?_ _Really?_ I'm a freaking idiot. I have no idea why I asked about hot dogs. I've totally blown it. I might as well just disappear into the pond and swim with the frogs. I force my fingernails into my palms.

After an awkward moment of palm pain, I see a slight hint of a grin on her face.

"Hot dogs?" she asks.

I act as if I've planned it all along and smile. _Naturally funny, that's me, Reizo Rush, Crazy Kid._ The new show in town. I'll be creating funny moments involving hot dogs all week _._

I try a slight course correction. "Of course not, I meant—do you have any food?"

Aimee gestures to a small cooler. "A granola bar and an apple."

"Can I?"

"Help yourself," Aimee says, rolling her eyes.

She keeps focused on her painting and touches it with the brush again. Her movements are slow, but sure. I'm pretty sure she's totally disinterested in me.

I find the half-eaten granola bar and break off a piece, then tie it to the string. It needs something to weigh it down. I use a small rock with a long, narrow shape to it and tie it to the string.

Aimee stops painting and studies the string. "You catch crawdads with granola bars?"

"Oh yeah. They love 'em." My mouth is on autopilot. "Last few years all the crawdads have been watching their diets. I'm told most of them workout. If you listen close, when you see bubbles, you might hear their aerobics instructor yelling at them."

I see a glint of curiosity in her blue eyes that causes me to tingle in unexpected places. My alien butterflies are roaring back.

She shakes her head. "Shut up."

"Oh yeah, it's a well known fact. Crawdads are nearly fat free now, the new Hillbilly sushi."

Aimee laughs. "That's gross."

I wink at her while strolling to the pond's edge like I'm some badass for impressing the hottest girl in Franklinville while simultaneously catching the most delicious crawdad in the entire pond. Of course, my stupid attempt at coolness is completely ridiculous, since I know nothing about talking with hot girls and even less about catching crawdads. But I fake it nevertheless and manage not to fall on my ass.

I hold one end of the string and toss the rock, string, and granola piece as far across the pond as I can. A skeeter bug changes direction and skips across the pond's surface when the rock hits the water. _Good move, Mr. Skeeter._ The string floats on the surface for barely a millisecond, and then follows the rock in a hurry to the bottom.

I tug on the string as if my hand is a fishing pole.

"So taking meds prevents you from helping me?"

Talk about persistent. She's relentless. _Ah man._ "It's not that. I just ..."

I'm not about to go into the details about my life: visits to Willowgate, two relentless voices inside my head, barely able to pay our rent, no cable, Internet, cell phone, probation.

Nope. As far as this girl is concerned, I'm like all our other classmates, hanging out on a summer day at a pond where I'd planned to . . . exit. _Hell._ I focus on the string.

I really don't understand her interest. Most people avoid me.

"It messes me up when I take them, that's all."

"How do meds mess you up? Aren't they supposed to help you?"

_Damn._ This girl should be a lawyer or something. I peer towards the open field beyond the oak trees. Rancher Murdock leads a cow by a rope. I quickly try to decide how to tell her. How should I phrase it so she understands? What if she laughs at me when I tell her, like most kids do?

Suddenly, I feel a tug on the string. _Saved by the crawdad._

I pull up the string and grab the wiggling creature clinging to the granola bar, determined to keep it. Pinching its body with two fingers to avoid its claws, I hold up my prize. "Hillbilly sushi. Hungry, Ames?"

Aimee's eyes go wide. "Amazing! I never thought things actually crawled on the bottom of the pond. It's totally gross." Her face glows a reddish-pink.

I toss the pinching critter back into the pond. "Some people cook 'em. Not me. I'm all catch and release. Frogs and lizards too. But snakes, not so much."

"That's disgusting."

My confidence has instantly spiked thanks to the mini-lobster. "With enough seasoning, everything tastes like chicken, right?"

She giggles. "I suppose."

"I better go. Will you be here tomorrow?"

Aimee gazes at her painting. "Yep. I plan on painting everyday till summer's over."

Good. The meds will be worn off by tomorrow. I give her my lame half-wave. "Later."

My original plan is temporarily on hold.

Reizo doesn't act like someone who'd flatten a mascot.

I turn on my music and listen to a cello moan before changing it to something more up-tempo. I dip my brush and gaze blankly at the painting.

He makes me laugh. He's cute too. Around school, he always keeps his head down and never talks to anyone. People make fun of how he talks to himself.

What does he hear that causes him to talk back to voices no one else can hear? How do the meds help him? But why couldn't he help me paint?

My thoughts continue to go in circles.

After ten minutes, I've painted a small crawdad on the muddy bank. It looks real too, just not exactly 3D.

I can't stop thinking about the mysterious boy. Reizo is so different at school. He's not anything like the cute guy who showed up at Uncle's pond with the magical energy.

Reizo is cool. Hunky. Charming. Shy, but funny.

I smile, thinking of the crawdad between his thumb and finger. _Hillbilly sushi._ The way his dimples appear and his smile goes sideways when he holds back a laugh. _Kind eyes._ I swear he's curious about me too. He gazes at me with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. Then he looks away, like I'll figure out some secret he's hiding.

_I love his smell_. That sounds disgusting. But I do.

I wonder where he lives? What he does?

I'm turning into a psycho stalker. Stalker Aimee. I sigh.

Yep, that's me. Maybe I'm the one who needs meds. Maybe I'm the one who's going nuts? Obsessing about a boy I just met. Wanting to feel more of his energy rather than trying to run from it. Obsessing about Grams and my NDE.

Moving the brush faster, I blend in the sky colors.

I hope he comes back tomorrow.

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#  chapter twelve

I sit up in my bed and wipe the crust from my eyes. Most days, I grab my ears when I hear Bouncer start the day off raging.

"Why you sleeping all day, loser?" asks Bouncer, ranting. "Wake the hell up!"

But today, I stretch and think of the smiling girl at the pond.

"Ames," I mutter to myself and grin.

"She's probably painting," says Honesti.

"A-meee! Blah," says Bouncer.

"Can you at least whisper?" I ask softly.

"Shut up!" replies Bouncer.

"You like her, don't you?" asks Honesti.

Bouncer whistles.

"She is sort of cute," says Honesti. "You scared me when you went to the pond."

"Don't you love us anymore, brother?" asks Bouncer.

I normally scream to shut them up, but my mind dwells on Aimee. It's as if thinking of her turns down the volume.

"Do you think he saw it?" asks Honesti.

"Maybe. Maybe not," says Bouncer. He laughs. "He'll dig his own grave."

As usual, I don't understand their rants. I don't even try to make sense out of the noise. I just push myself out of bed and snatch my sketchbook. _11 a.m._ I return to the mattress and began to sketch.

After fifteen minutes pass, I've drawn a 3D crawdad on a scribbled-out mud bank. Two-segment mini-lobster body, black beady eyes, dual probing antennae, four pairs of legs, and two oversized pinching claws. The small 3D creature on the page scurries off a mud bank toward the sketched out pond.

"It'll impress her," says Honesti.

"I hope so."

My creative mojo is back.

#  chapter thirteen

His Saturday morning scent warms me. The day of the week when I used to do long distance training runs. Meandering two lane roads. Fresh cut grass. Noisy sprinklers. Cool mist. Rooster crows. The way the sunrise takes the chill out.

I can't get over how different he is than the Reizo Rush who took down the grizzly mascot at school. It's a nice surprise. His vibe is intense, but he's not creepy.

"Once you finish the basic shape," Reizo says, leaning in close, "just add another critter next to it, but at a slightly adjusted angle. Then blend them together and repeat."

He touches my shoulder and shocks me. A breath catches in my throat.

Static electricity or was it a surge of energy? I don't know. By the surprised glint in his eye, he felt it too.

Reizo leans in to the paper, drawing on my painting with his pencil. His eyes gloss over as his pencil moves. His hands move slow but sure. Energy radiates from him. It's warm, kind.

He's feeling calm today.

After Reizo is done sketching a second crawdad at an offset angle, I see how connecting multiple shapes turns it into a 3D image.

His warmth interrupts my crawdad gaze. I haven't been so close to a guy from school since the last dance I went to during freshman year. That was two weeks before the relay race where my heart gave out.

"Use your paints now," he says, taking a step back. "Right over the top of the pencil."

I dip my brush and paint.

"More like this." He takes my wrist and adjusts it. "That's good. Add different shades of black around the edges."

I dip and stroke, dip and stroke.

"Cool," he says. "You're totally getting it."

I give him a quick glance. "Thanks to you."

_Wow._ The crawdad is beginning to look as though it's crawling out of the painting.

"I thought you said you couldn't help me."

"That was yesterday." He pauses. "Let's just say I'm med-free today."

"You're off your meds?"

"Yep." He nods.

I stop painting and frown. "I don't get it. Why'd you take the meds in the first place?"

"It's complicated."

Obviously, he doesn't want to tell me about it. I decide not to press the issue. I'm enjoying how we're painting together. "Can we paint the fish too?"

"Sure." He pauses for a moment. "So Rancher Murdock doesn't mind you coming to his pond everyday?"

I hesitate, then continue painting. "No. Why would he?"

"I don't know. I just thought he had a "No Trespassing" sign up for a reason."

"It doesn't apply to me," she says.

"Oh really. You're above the law like I am, are you?"

She giggles. "Of course not. He's my uncle."

Reizo freezes and rubs his face. "No freakin' way. Your uncle?"

"Yes way. He's my great uncle, actually. My mom's father's brother."

"Jeez. Say that three times fast." He shakes his head. "I had no idea."

"I don't see him much when I'm painting. To be honest, I like the privacy."

He takes a step back and stands straight. "Sorry."

"I don't mean you, silly." I add in more color to the mud bank under the crawdad. "I'm glad you're here."

"So your uncle owns all this land?"

"Yeah, over sixteen hundred acres. My mom owns part of it, but Uncle Pete manages the entire ranch. It's been in our family for well over a hundred years—ever since a man named Wesley something died. I forget his last name. My uncle says old man Wesley owned all of the land in Franklinville back in the old days. For as far as you can see."

"Wesley?"

"Yeah, the story my uncle tells me is that the man had problems. He died in a mental hospital. The township took everything and sold it off after they'd committed him. My great-grandparents adopted his son, Thomas, and raised him."

Reizo's face has gone ashen.

"What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"

He slowly begins to walk backwards. "I better go."

"Reizo, are you okay?"

He shrugs.

"Tell me what's wrong?"

"I'm related to Wesley." Reizo turns around and abruptly walks away.

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#  chapter fourteen

Mom rushes around the apartment with her brunette ponytail bouncing behind her.

"Thank you for fixing the toilet today. It probably would have taken the manager at least another week to get to it," she says as she wipes off the kitchen counter. "I'll just vacuum real quick, then I need to go."

"Mom, stop. Don't worry about it. I said I'd do it." I raise my voice slightly. "Would you please answer me?"

She stops and rubs her hands together. Her fingers look dry and ten years older than they should. I feel a tinge of guilt knowing how hard she works.

"You'll vacuum?" Mom asks with a smile. She goes without make-up during her night job and hardly any during the day, but she doesn't need it when she smiles.

I nod, peering into her eyes with intensity. "I said I would."

"Okay. I'm late already. I'm in a new building tonight with two others. I might be later than usual."

"Why didn't you tell me Grandpa Wesley's son was raised by Rancher Murdock's family?" I ask again.

"Liar!" says Bouncer. "You hear me? She's a damned liar. A liar. A dirty liar."

I want to scream at Bouncer to shut up, but I make two fists and hold my tongue.

"I haven't thought about it lately. Besides, there's not much else to tell." She folds the rag she's been using and puts a drinking glass in the cabinet.

"Can you just tell me what you know? Please." I help her put away a plate. I'm not about to let her run off to work without answering my question.

"You were there when I told Dr. Stewart." Mom sighs. "After your great-grandfather Wesley was committed, he lost everything he owned. Rancher Murdock's ancestors took in Wesley's son. Let me think. What was his name?" She squints her eyes. "Ah, I think your dad told me Thomas was your second-great-grandfather. Wesley deeded some of his landholding to the Murdock's before the Township took the rest. Then the Murdock's raised Thomas as their own."

Mom stands in front of me with her hands on her hips. "It was in the 1800's. Wesley died not long after they committed him." She frowns. "What's gotten into you anyway? Why do you care so much about the 1800's?"

Mom makes a good point, but I'm in no mood to tell her about Aimee. I wonder if Aimee thinks I'm crazy like great grandpa Wesley?

"I care, alright?"

"That's right. Yell at her," says Bouncer. "Show her you mean it."

"Of course he cares," says Honesti. "Will you leave him alone?"

With the dishes put away, Mom gives me a quick kiss. "Dinner is in the oven. I need to get going. Turn the oven off when you take it out. Will you be okay by yourself tonight?"

"Just smile and say yes ma'am," says Honesti. "It won't help to press."

"I say full court press," says Bouncer. "Scream at her too."

Honesti is right and Bouncer is wrong, as always. I know Mom can't do anything about our ancient family history, but I was still mad about it. After all, Mom hadn't told me that Wesley had a son who was raised on Murdock's ranch.

I know it makes no sense to blame her. She doesn't even know I went to Murdock's pond. My stomach wrenches when I remember my Exit Plan. Mom knows nothing about that either. Hell, no one does. Not even the annoying voices. No one can ever know.

What am I going to do about it?

I force a smile and sit down at the kitchen table. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

Mom gives me another quick kiss, and then disappears out the front door.

As if on cue, Bouncer and Honesti start a new argument.

"Why care about someone who's been dead for a hundred years?" asks Honesti.

"So stupid," says Bouncer, pretending to cry like a baby. "Baby man cares. Wah!"

Before long they're shouting at each other. _Typical_. Same as usual, their argument makes no sense. I close my eyes and rub my temples.

Meeting Aimee has complicated everything.

#  chapter fifteen

His Saturday morning scent lingers. Comforting. Familiar. I pull the covers over my face, as if it will help me savor it.

I realize the thought of trying to smell someone is beyond gross, but the reality of doing it isn't. Besides, who's going to know?

His touch is energizing and warm. Mysterious eyes. Soft lips.

Why do I miss him? I just met the guy.

Yet, I feel like I've always known him.

_Blah blah blah_. Even when I think it, it seems overly dramatic or just plain ridiculous. Always known a guy? Really?

_Yes, really_.

He doesn't smother me. My feeling meter pegs when I'm with him. The way his eyes grab me.

Damn.

Reizo must feel it too. But I can't be sure. I roll over on my side. Then roll the other way.

Is he in bed sleeping? Does he think about me?

I force my eyes closed.

My mood shifts. _How stupid am I?_ Falling for a guy isn't what I do, not so soon. That's it. I'm going to put an end to this.

Oh hell.

I change my mind.

Should I? Or shouldn't I? Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner it'll be morning.

Even his name is cute.

Reizo Rush.

#  chapter sixteen

My bones ache from the early morning chill. _2 a.m._ I shiver while standing in front of the high school gym's brick wall. _Transport to the Stars_. The piece I'd sketched, but never planned to spray, comes to life in my imagination. And so does Aimee.

Ever since I met the girl, I've stopped dwelling on taking the pills. I'm second-guessing everything. There's something amazing about her, but I can't put my finger on it. Something magical. Electric. She inspires me to create. _How is that possible?_

"You better get started, honey," says Honesti. "Hurry it up."

"Why bother?" asks Bouncer. "You suck. Stick with crying in bed."

"Let him be, would you?" asks Honesti.

The two voices continue talking, whispering, and carrying on.

I force myself to focus on the image I'd planned to spray, but thoughts of Aimee distract me. Painting the city with her help would be amazing. Moving a paintbrush together, spraying a can together, and adding color to the gray together.

_Focus dammit._ I tighten my left hand on a blue can and hold a yellow can in my right. Each can has a wingcap and sharpshooter attached to spray the first layer of the piece.

My creative game changer happened freshman year when my friend John Taylor, aka JT, taught me about paint caps. He's been my mentor ever since. Someone I trust.

JT showed me how to install adapter caps on cheap spray-paint cans. How the spray leaves the cap's nozzle and wets a rough surface. How to quickly install a wingcap to change cap styles. He taught me about cap styles: thin, outline, fats, super fats, calligraphy, needle, and stencil.

" _Taking too much time is a tagger's worst enemy_ ," JT had told me. " _Easy on, spray, easy off_. _Picking the right cap at the right time for the right tag is the secret behind creating pieces that rock the known universe_."

Caps made my street art standout. JT even shared secrets like how to cut out stencils ahead of time and use scrap paper as an occasional paint shield. He demanded I use an air filter over my mouth to avoid breathing in paint and killing creative brain cells. Told me to use gloves with the fingertips cut out to keep the paint off my palms, limiting clean up to only my fingertips.

The dude is genius. He had mad talent as a street artist before his girlfriend got pregnant. That was when he dropped out of high school, married, and eventually became the manager at the hardware store. JT is the only person I know that manages a hardware store, drives a BMW 4-series, and lives in his own home.

Now he keeps me stocked with supplies from the hardware store recycle bin. The used paint is mostly spray, but sometimes he gives me cans of colored house paint, old brushes, and pieces of colored chalk. I look at it as helping the hardware store with a recycle program by disposing of the half-empty cans of paint on walls and sidewalks. When I finish off a can, I return it to the empties collection. It's totally a win-win.

The arrangement is epic. Creating 3D tags was my idea, even though JT spread rumors that he'd come up with my designs. I add a wildstyle " _REIZO_ " tag to sign all my creations. The wildstyle tag is a signal to the gangs in town to leave my shit alone and not to shoot my ass off when I spray. JT has some kind of arrangement with local gangs to give me a free pass to tag where the hell I want. Evidently, the gangsters respect my talent, even if they think I'm nuts.

Bouncer and Honesti argue as I spray and think about Aimee to tune them out. I have two hours to paint.

A new image suddenly replaces the _Transport to the Stars_ image in my mind. I hadn't even practiced the new image that I'm visualizing. Beautiful. Peaceful. Heavenly. Murdock's pond.

I spray, a sweeping spray at first. Then I add detail. Change paint cans, change caps, and spray again. Sprawling oak trees. Horses graze in the background on green grass. A fish peers at a water skeeter. A crawdad wearing a cool hat plays a guitar. Aimee is painting a picture.

3:40 a.m. rolls around. My fingertips are soaked in paint, but I'm finally done.

I take a step back to evaluate. _OMG._ It's my best piece ever. Colorful. Three-dimensional features. The images pop. The piece looks alive, full of life, magic, and wonder.

_Shit._ My stomach sinks. It's wrong. All wrong. _Oh hell._ Why didn't I think it through?

The media will see the horses and figure out it's a picture of Murdock's ranch. Everyone will know the girl is Aimee De Lucca. The cops will harass her. She'll think I'm an obsessed crazy jerk for painting pictures of her in public. She'll hate me for sure.

_Shit._ There's only one thing to do—change the piece.

"You're out of time," Honesti says. "Reiz! Security will be here any minute!"

"You may as well give yourself up," Bouncer says. "Or jump off a roof top."

I act fast, grabbing a primer can, spraying over the entire image, grab another, and another. In less than three minutes, my best creation ever is replaced with primer gray.

I grab a color for a train, another color for its headlight and two colors to mix for bricks. My hands move in a blur, adding color to the gray canvas on the bricks. I spray, change caps, and spray some more. Finally, the image matches the real brick on the original wall, texture and all. Not bad—light from an _on-coming train._

"Hurry," Honesti says. "Get moving!"

"Give it up boy," Bouncer says. "You're done."

White car lights approach as Top Dog Security's small Ford Ranger drives into the school's parking lot.

"Reiz!" Honesti shouts.

A truck door slams. Foot steps. The security guard is moving towards me.

Slow and sure, I spray " _REIZO,_ " and then wipe my hands with a rag and stuff the cans in my backpack with the caps. I zip it up and walk away.

Just as I reach the corner of the building, the security guard's flashlight lights up the wall I'd just sprayed. "What in the name of—"

"Run!" the voices yell together.

For the first time all night, I listen.

#  chapter seventeen

I gaze at the amazing piece we've painted together. A fish jumping, a crawdad crawling, bushes moving, grass swaying, rippling pond. Bach Cello Suites No. 2 in D Minor: Prelude plays on my cell. Long, soft, low vibrations.

I'm not sure why I feel so blue today. Maybe it's because I realize the boy who's been helping me add 3D features to my paintings over the last week isn't real. He can't be. The Reizo from school is unpredictable—crazy. The cute guy sitting next to me in tight jeans, a baggy t-shirt, and a gray hoodie isn't crazy at all. This boy has a soft touch and mad talent. He's actually amazing.

So what's real? Is the pond where I visited Grams this pond or was it somewhere else?

Maybe Reizo is crazy and I'm delusional? Maybe he's not helping me paint. Or maybe it's all my imagination and he's not sitting next to me. A shock runs through my body when Reizo touches me, and I shudder. The cute boy next to me is definitely real.

"Sorry," Reizo says. "I didn't mean to—"

My face warms and my voice softens. "It's okay."

"Can I?" Reizo asks.

My heart is racing. "Can you what?"

"Guide your hand."

"Um..." My breath catches as I peer into his eyes, wondering what he sees when he looks at me. Who is this guy who magically appeared the first afternoon of summer and cast his spell on me?

"Relax," he says. His grip is firm, but his fingers are soft. "Let me move your hand."

I exhale a long breath and try to relax as a major set of goose-bump-waves run down my arm, one after the other. I stick out my hand, still gripping the paintbrush.

Dip. Stroke. Dip. The painting is coming to life and popping off the canvas.

Reizo is such an amazing artist. I imagine the painting is the cello and my hand is the bow. He moves my hand to the rhythm of Bach's Cello Suite.

Dip. Stroke. Dip.

I close my eyes and imagine we're gliding across the floor, dancing in a close embrace. Musical notes flowing and lingering, his arms holding me.

His hand stops. "Are you tired?"

I force open my eyes. "Sorry. No, I—"

"I think it's done." He lets go and gestures toward the paper. "It would have looked better with spray."

I inspect our creation. The pond appears to float above the paper, clouds moving across a blue sky, bushes swaying, a fish jumping. Even the crawdad in the scene appears alive, scampering from the muddy bank toward the mystical pond.

"Where did you learn to paint like that?"

"Nowhere. Just lots of practice."

I roll my eyes. "On building walls?"

"Sidewalks and streets too. So?" Reizo's body stiffens and his face reddens. He rubs at the back of his neck. "It's way harder than sitting here and painting without any risk."

I'm surprised by his sudden energy shift. It pushes me back. The edge in his voice sounds closer to the Reizo I recognize from school. I feel intense anger and pain. His warmth has gone cold and I start to shiver.

I get what he means by risk, since tagging is illegal in all parts of the civilized world, but why is he mad at me? I force a deep breath, trying to calm myself. "What's wrong with the way I paint?"

"Nothing." Reizo whistles in a long breath and lets it out in a huff. His voice relaxes. "Sorry. Are you cold? You're shivering."

He takes off his hoody and wraps it over my shoulders. "This should help."

Reizo's energy shifts again. Anger and pain dissolves into calmness. I'm feeling everything he feels, but he's not crushing me.

"It's just that creating art in the city is so much bigger," he says. "Way more intense and rewarding."

I feel his magical energy return. He's back to the beautiful Reizo.

"It's a major adrenaline rush," he says.

"I understand it's a rush sneaking around in the dark, trying not to get caught. I don't mean to sound critical, but what's the point of defacing someone's property?"

"What's the point of copying what's right in front of you?" he asks, his voice gaining a sharper edge. "What's the point of painting a three-dimensional pond that's already a three-dimensional pond?"

Reizo stands and raises his arms. His eyes are focused and determined, his words loud and intense, and his energy fierce and full of passion. "Copy what Mother Nature created? Why bother? It already has color. How does copying a landscape help change the gray part of the world? Why not take a photograph? What's the point of painting it?"

It's hard to keep up with his mood changes. "You're scaring me," I say.

He huffs and returns to the chair, lowering his voice, softening his eyes. His energy shifts once again. Now he feels calm, like a high mountain lake without a wind stirring it.

"Sorry," he says. "I just get passionate about bringing the gray parts of the world to life."

It's weird. The feeling I get from him is familiar, like a home cooked meal, or a warm fire on a snowy day. I should be nervous about the way he's acting, his shifting emotions, intensity and passion, gentle one moment, edgy the next. But his touch, oh God, his fingertips.

"I think I get it," I say. "The doors at the firehouse were super boring till you sprayed that seriously wild tag."

His eyes shift down. I think he's blushing. "You think?"

My heart is racing. I love it when he gets shy. He has me again as his Saturday morning scent rides the breeze to my nose. I know the boy in front of me is the real Reizo. He's the cute guy with the bottled-up passion to change the world, his crazy eyes full of magical wonder and possibility.

I get him. He feels held back and that frustrates him to no end. Adding images to the walls and sidewalks in Franklinville is the way he expresses himself. The way he tries to color the world.

The Reizo back at school is the fake one, the caged up, trapped one. The boy in front of me is the mysterious and attractive one who only wants to create and make the world better.

"I have an idea," he says with a bad-boy glint in his eye.

I grin. "Only one?"

"Well—" he pauses.

"Come on, spit it out."

"How about I show you what I do? Bring the gray to life. Washing away the old, creating a city full of color. What do you say?"

I peer deep into his eyes. "You sound like a poet."

His hand touches my forearm. "How about it, Ames?"

Oh my. Only Grams called me Ames.

"Going out in the middle of the night?" I ask. "Vandalizing a building? It sounds dangerous."

"Not vandalizing, think of it as upgrading. I promise you'll feel more alive than you ever have."

I think about it for a moment and remember Grams telling me this is my life to experience. _But can I trust him? Will his energy shift negative and stay there?_

I search his eyes and let myself feel another set of goose-bump-waves spreading across my skin. There's only one way to find out.

"When?" I ask.

"Tonight," he replies. "2 a.m. sharp . . . You're really up for it?"

"2 a.m.?" I suddenly have second thoughts. "That's in the middle of the night. My mom—"

"We can't exactly spray in the middle of the day. I mean, well, we could, but the end result wouldn't be as cool."

"So Mr. Poet..." I grin. "You want me to sneak out, meet you in the middle of the night, and watch you break the law?"

"Sure, why not? But that's not all."

"Oh?"

"You're going to break the law with me."

"I hardly even know you." I feel heat creeping up my neck and tingles running down my spine.

"There's nothing to worry about," he smirks. "I promise to have you back by 4 a.m. Your mom will never know. So, how about it?"

Am I crazy to say yes to this beautiful guy?

I take in a quick breath and allow my grin to grow. "Do you even know where I live? I don't even know your number. Do you have a car? A cell phone?"

"No, nope, and nada—no idea where you live, not allowed to drive, and cell phones cost too much." He shakes his head. "But none of that matters. We'll meet at the school's front gate. I have a special piece planned. Don't worry. Our target isn't far from the school. A short jog, just wear comfortable shoes."

I stare into his eyes, but I don't feel scared. I'm excited. I try to come up with an excuse to say no, but nothing comes to mind. The school is only two blocks from my house.

"I promise, Ames. I won't let anything happen to you. You'll have a blast."

I feel our connection getting stronger. Does he feel it too?

Every cell in my body is saying don't go with him, but I let his electric touch energize me. It doesn't drain me. Reizo's soft eyes tell me he's feeling what I'm feeling. His energy tells me that too. I'm falling for this guy and I can't stop myself.

"Okay, I'll go."

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# chapter eighteen

The stillness makes it a perfect night to spray as I wait at Theodore High's front gate. I just wish the voices would shut-up. They've been relentless with their ranting.

I press on my temples as hard as I can. "Will you both shut up for just one night?"

"Whatever do you mean?" asks Bouncer.

"You're not funny!" I yell.

"Please, Reizo," says Honesti. "Don't shout at us."

"Eat dirt, brother man," says Bouncer and laughs. "You could use the fiber."

"Here she comes," says Honesti.

Aimee is wearing a long black coat, as if the night air is below freezing. Her outfit is serious overkill for this particular summer night, but she looks amazing in black.

"Did you say something?" Aimee asks. "I thought I heard you shouting."

I adjust my backpack and grip the wire handle of two empty five-gallon buckets and jog to her. "Nope. You ready?"

"I think so," she says with a slight hesitation.

"Good. Let's get moving."

I walk faster, but not quite a jog. Aimee easily keeps up.

"That's right, move fast. But don't trip," says Honesti.

"It'd be classic if he did," says Bouncer.

I want to grab my ears and shout back again, but I focus on Aimee and periodically glance at her as we fast walk down the sidewalk.

Suddenly, a black Dodge Challenger screeches around a corner and hits its brakes, stopping along side of us. "What's in the buckets, Crazy Kid?" Zeke Sarov shouts out the passenger side window.

His buddy Josh sits behind the steering wheel and spits out the window.

"I don't trust those boys," says Honesti. "One looks sort of like a chess master meets stoner kid."

I stop walking and glare at Zeke. Of all nights, why does he have to show up tonight? _Bastard._

"Come on," Aimee says. "Just ignore them."

I shake out my hands and let Aimee pull me away.

"Watch it!" Bouncer yells so loud it causes my eyes to water. "He'll kick your ass for sure!"

"Hey!" Zeke shouts. "What's the rush, Rush? Haha! Get it?"

Josh and Zeke laugh as if they took a shot of laughing gas.

"Who knew? I didn't think Crazy Kid talked to real people."

"Oh, man. I'd kick his ass for that!" Bouncer shouts.

"Just keep walking," says Honesti.

The black car slowly drives next to us in the quiet suburban neighborhood as we continue walking in front of a driveway.

Josh accelerates and takes a sharp right up the driveway in front of us and screeches to a stop, blocking the sidewalk. Zeke jumps out of the car.

"Don't you have something important to do?" I ask. "Like counting your drug money or selling some pot?"

"Hey—!" Josh shouts, and then starts to get out of the car, but stops when Zeke holds up his hand.

Zeke lowers his voice. "You're a real comedian, Crazy Kid. I'm just glad I'm not wearing a grizzly outfit, I might be in trouble." Zeke laughs.

Josh laughs too.

"I don't like this," says Honesti. "Please, Reiz. Just walk away."

I growl and take a lunge forward, then step back. "You don't need to look like a bear for me to kick your punk ass."

Bouncer snickers. "Good one. You could probably take chess kid, Skippy. But maybe not his large football-playing friend."

Aimee grabs me by the arm and pulls me up the driveway. "Come on."

I don't resist.

We walk around the car, but I keep my eyes on Zeke.

"Listen to her, Reizo," says Honesti.

"Weed, huh? I sell a lot more than weed." Zeke lets out a loud laugh and shakes his head. "Have fun washing cars or whatever you're planning to do with those buckets."

He makes a loud kissing sound. "Crazy Kid and smiling Aimee, you make such an odd couple."

Josh whistles. "Yeah baby."

"This is getting boring." Zeke climbs back into the black car and turns to Josh. "Get me out of here."

The car screeches in reverse and then takes off in the opposite direction.

A porch light comes on across the street and someone yells, "Are you kidding me? Do you know what time it is?"

"That was fun," says Bouncer. "Good thing your girlfriend saved your ass."

"This is starting off, um, fun. I guess," Aimee says softly. She grins when I glance at her.

It takes a block before I breathe normally again. "Do you mind if we pick up the pace?"

"Not at all," Aimee replies. "Let me carry a bucket."

I hand her one and we start to jog. "Thanks."

"What do you have in the backpack?" she asks, slightly out of breath. "It looks heavy."

"Supplies. The piece I'm planning for tonight is going to be epic. I hope you're ready to get your sparkly nails dirty."

She looks at her pinky fingernails with sparkle polish and smiles. "You noticed."

I shrug as if I could care less. "Tell me if you need to stop to catch your breath."

"I'm okay. So what epic piece do you have planned?"

"You'll see."

It doesn't take long before we arrive at Fro-Yo Gurt, which used to be Franklinville's bankrupted music store. Now that's been converted into the largest yogurt shop in Franklin County—a one-story white building with a window storefront framed by four-foot wide gray cinder block walls. The building is a secluded storefront at the end of an outdoor mall with a five-foot high hedge that blocks the street view.

I drop my backpack and unzip it. In less than a minute, I've set up twenty spray-paint cans, from light colors to dark colors, and taken out: stencils, paper, brushes, chalk, three plastic bowls, two masks, and gloves. I pile up the stencil papers and cutouts and then organize the caps and plastic bowls.

"No wonder your backpack looked heavy." Aimee frowns as she nervously scans the area. "Won't someone see us?"

"Hell yes, someone will see you," says Bouncer, laughing. "You're the worst painter ever."

"Shut up," I say.

Aimee frowns. "What?"

"Sorry, um, I was just—never mind. We'll be fine. Picking the yogurt shop for tonight's piece isn't just for artistic reasons. Logistics is my biggest motivation."

"Logistics, huh?" Aimee takes a quick look around and appears to relax. She peers at the storefront with her hands on her hips. "You're going to need a ladder."

I nod toward the empty five-gallon buckets. "I have something better."

"Aren't you going to kill their business?"

"I figure we're doing them a public service. You'll see my vision soon."

"Right." She rolls her eyes. "A public service?"

I hand her a painting mask with filters sticking out on both sides. "Put the straps over your head and make sure it covers your nose and mouth."

I put on my mask.

"No way!" shouts Bouncer. "I thought it was impossible for you to look uglier. Guess not. You look like a bugman!" He roars as if he just told the funniest joke ever told.

Jerk.

"He does sort of look like a bug," says Honesti.

"You're the one painting, why do I need a mask?" asks Aimee. She takes off her coat, twists her hair into a ponytail, and ties it back with an elastic band from her pocket.

For a moment, I think about Mom. She wears her hair in a ponytail too when she's working. I cringe when I picture her cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors day and night, but shake the thought away and refocus on the spray paint cans.

"Safety," I mutter from under the mask. "I don't want the spray to kill any of your brain cells. Put on the gloves too, unless you want paint all over your pretty hands."

"Paint? On my hands?"

"She's gonna mess up her nails," Bouncer says, exaggerating each word.

"Shush," says Honesti.

"Yep, paint. You're going to help me spray the sidewalk in front of the door."

Aimee glances over her shoulder toward the hedges.

"Relax. Security doesn't drive-by until 4 a.m."

"If you're lucky," says Bouncer.

Aimee frowns as she puts on the gloves. "Are you sure?"

I nod and help Aimee adjust the breathing filter over her face. I adjust the caps on the spray-paint cans and set down two. Then I take out duct tape and turn over both of the empty five-gallon buckets, step on one bucket, tape it to a foot, then step up onto the other bucket and tape it to my other foot.

She smiles. "Stilts? You should play basketball."

"Can you hand me those two cans?"

Aimee picks up the spray paint cans and holds them close to her. "Say please—"

"Please."

She hands them to me.

"Thanks."

I drag my duct-taped feet until I'm standing in front of the far white wall, then reach up as far as I can and spray.

"Can you hand me the stencil on the top and the small bowl?"

She hands me both items.

I take the stencil and bowl from her and place the bowl against the wall. "This is where it gets fun."

"What's the small bowl for anyway?" I ask.

"You'll see," Reizo says.

I'm starting to have second thoughts. It's dark and Reizo is totally defacing the front of the building. He looks like a dork, standing on paint buckets with an air filter mask strapped to his face. When I see myself spraying the sidewalk with primer as a reflection in the window, I realize I'm doing the same thing and looking just as dorky.

I'm tempted to leave, but I'm captivated by how fast Reizo moves. He appears to know exactly what needs to be painted and with what color. He's like a human laser printer.

I have to admit, I feel nervous and excited all rolled up. " _Experience life_ ," Grams told me. I bite my lower lip and decide to stay.

At first, it looks as if he's painting lines. Then he adds in shading. His passion mixes with my excitement.

"Can you please hand me the next paper template?" His voice is soft, but edgy. "Take these and hand me blue and green."

I hesitate.

"It'll be cool. Trust me."

The faster he moves, the faster I move—priming the sidewalk, handing him paint cans, stencils, and an occasional bowl.

Reizo's movements are deliberate. No move is wasted. He pulls off the duct tape from his feet and paints the bottom half of both walls without standing on the buckets.

The walls are coming alive. I see a 3D candy forest. Towering red and white canes, hard candies, twisted red licorice sticks, green trees full of candy apples. He's even blended the colors and shading. The light is bad, but from my view, the image makes it look like a customer could walk right into his painting.

Reizo is fast and impressive. After an hour, he's finished both of the walls, and a gold brick walkway on the glass door appears to continue to the back of the store. I see what he means now. The painted walls will definitely attract attention for the yogurt business.

"Let's finish the sidewalk. We don't have much time. Use the gold paint for the bridge. I'll work on the waterfall."

"What bridge?"

"I'll show you." In less than two minutes, he's painted a brown outline of a wooden bridge, winding like a snake from the parking lot to the front door.

"Spray the cardboard piece when you're done, then use a brush to paint the bridge."

I get what he's saying. I'll use a paintbrush to fill in the bricks with gold paint. It actually looks like a real solid gold brick.

"Hurry," he says. "It's going to be close. We're about out of time."

A few minutes later, we're done.

I remove the mask from my face and step back. I notice he's watching me. Not in a scary way, more like he's proud of the piece and wants to know how I feel.

I back up slowly so I can take in the entire image for the first time. There's only one word to describe it: _incredible._

A golden bridge stretches across the sidewalk in front of the store, with massive waterfalls painted on both sides. The bridge leads to a beautiful 3D candy land. It's probably the most amazing piece of artwork ever.

At first, I don't know what to say, and he's not talking either.

"Too bad the store is closed," I whisper. "I could use a yogurt."

Reizo smiles and looks at his wristwatch. "We better load up and get moving. Time is up."

Just as he finishes packing and zips up his backpack, headlights shine about a hundred yards away. A car enters the parking lot.

"Damn," he says. "Security patrol is early tonight. Time to go."

He leaves the buckets and we run.

"Stop where you are. Don't move!" The amplified voice blasts from the vehicle behind the headlights.

"Hang on a second," Reizo says and gently grabs my arm.

We both stop.

"Do you mind if we split up?" he asks.

"What?"

"I'll distract them so you can get out of here." Reizo points. "You go that way. It's a short cut." He points again, but in the opposite direction. "I'll get them to chase me away from you."

I see a path that goes in a direction away from the road, through an open gate, and onto a side street, exiting the strip mall.

He continues. "But only go if you're okay with it. We have a better chance splitting up. Honestly, if it weren't safe, I wouldn't let you go that way alone. But if I go with you, they'll be all over us." He glances at the patrol car that's getting closer. "We don't have much time."

"Okay, I guess."

More sirens are getting closer.

"Meet you at the pond tomorrow," he says with a smile. "Okay?"

I nod.

"Oh, and nice job on the bridge." His energy is calm and level. "You're a pretty hot street artist."

I chuckle nervously. "Thanks."

"You better get moving. I'll get their attention."

A cop car's siren wails and flashing red, blue, and white lights cut through the darkness.

"Go," he says.

I take off running and glance back to see what he's doing.

Reizo is just waiting and watching me. He gives me a half-wave and points for me to hurry.

Once I make it about a hundred yards away, I glance back again and see him running straight towards the patrol car. I turn away and run faster.

"Freeze!" the amplified voice booms near Reizo.

I stay in plain sight and wait. Jeez, the cops are slow bastards.

"Stupid strategy," says Bouncer. "You're screwed."

"They're getting closer!" shouts Honesti.

I hear a helicopter approaching. Clearly, the police chief is determined to catch me. Probably because I embarrass the mayor with every tag I do and the media is all over him about it. Two new cop cars join the security patrol. Finally they see me.

Squealing tires and blaring sirens, all the cars speed toward me. A spot beam lights me up. I check once more and confirm Aimee is safely gone. Time to get the hell out of here.

I take off in a sprint through a backyard, over a fence, and through another back yard into Franklin Park. There's no way I can out run them with my backpack on. I stash it out of sight under an overgrown hedge.

A few blocks away, the whirl of helicopter blades motivates me to change course. Backup plan. Instead of going through the park like I'd originally planned, I jump another fence, avoid a barking dog, and continue over a brick wall to my alternate escape route: the Main Street storm drain.

"Faster!" shouts Honesti.

"Yo, brother man will never make it," says Bouncer.

"He's really fast," says Honesti.

Sprinting and sweating, my lungs burn, but there's no way I will get caught tonight.

Honesti and Bouncer give me conflicting directions as usual, but I ignore their annoying noise. I'd planned the escape route and this alternate route a couple months ago, even practiced it a hundred times. It'd be ridiculous to try something different in the heat of the moment. I stay with my alternate plan and run through an open metal gate into the five-foot-high underground storm drain.

My running slows to a jog as water soaks through my shoes. Wet shoes are gross, but the drain is safe.

Touching the side of the drain with my right hand to guide me, I carefully step through the dark drainpipe. A minute later, I'm two blocks away exiting the drain.

I peer outward, then upward. A far away spotlight shines down from the police helicopter over the park. Police car lights and sirens are moving away from my position.

Made it.

# chapter nineteen

Reizo was right.

The media went nuts over the yogurt store's graffiti on the morning news. Lines of customers extended around the block, even before the shop opened. People were waiting their turn to walk the golden path, up and over the 3D bridge with the waterfalls, and on into the store. Most people took selfies while they waited in line.

When a morning news reporter asked the manager about pressing charges if the cops caught the tagger, the young guy just smiled and said, "No way. I'd love to meet the artist so I could thank him. Business has never been better."

I gaze out over the pond, another beautiful day in paradise.

My chest feels tight and my stomach twists. The morning news also reported the police didn't catch the tagger. _Thank God._ Another reporter interviewed a police officer. " _Regardless of the artistic value,_ " the officer said, " _graffiti in the city of Franklinville is still considered vandalism. We will find the artist and press charges to the fullest extent of the law."_

The same report had shown Franklinville's mayor holding a press conference a day earlier. " _Graffiti has a corrosive effect on the city's essence. Glorifying graffiti is a sign that our city is out of control, an appropriation of a public space without permission. We will track the vandals down and put them behind bars, where they belong. Regaining control of our city spaces is priority one. I stake my reputation on it."_

I turn up the Chopin piano music playing on my cell, Waltz No 1 E-flat, Op 18. My paintbrush moves to the rhythm as I imagine playing the piano. I have no clue why I'm so obsessed with Bach and Chopin, especially when I'm stressed. Rap? Pop? Heavy Metal? Country? Nope. Classical. _Thanks Grams._

Reizo said he'd meet me, but it's midday now and I'm worried. Something must be wrong. _Ow!_ A pain shoots down my right arm. I take a deep breath and shake my hand. _Weird._ I tighten my fist and then loosen it. I'm beginning to doubt it's a cramp.

My thoughts shift back to Reizo _._ Shy, but bold, his sweet sideways smile. His lips.

_Summer Affair_ is what I'm calling my newest painting. I'm using mixed media for this one. Pastel lines over acrylic paint, charcoal over oil pastels. Reizo inspires me to try new things. Experiment even.

My painting shows a series of waterfalls flowing down 3D cliffs into a moat surrounding a medieval castle. Inside the castle tiny people stroll. Reizo and I dance in a courtyard. A string quartet plays near the courtyard.

My mind drifts backwards in time as I paint.

There was no warning the day my heart gave out. None. I ran as the third runner in the 4 x 400 meter relay. As soon as I finished the handoff, the pain stabbed my heart. It was the most pain I'd ever felt. I collapsed and rolled.

The coaches told me later I ran a 53.2 third leg. Not bad. _Rah._ My team finished second—go Bears.

Coach Reese and Coach Thomas saved my life. They tag-teamed me with their CPR training, managing to keep blood flowing through my veins until the paramedics arrived.

My sports career came to an abrupt end. So did friendships with my athlete friends. But it wasn't their fault. Seriously, who wants to hang with an ex-track star? Before long, most people around school called me broken-hearted.

Cell phone videos hurt the most. Over twenty surfaced showing me doing a face plant and roll on the track. Totally embarrassing. Lucky for me, Mom did the lawyer thing. She enlisted her law partners to get all the videos removed as soon as they appeared. I have no clue how she did it. Eventually, the videos were gone, but people still talked. That was when they renamed me from broken-hearted to smiling Aimee. Why does everyone get a nickname anyway?

I put my brush in the Mason jar and stand up to walk around. My shoulder aches, the pain spreads. _My heart?_ I exhale in one burst of breath and shake out both hands as I pace around the pond.

Where could Reizo be?

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# chapter twenty

White walls. Florescent glow. The smell of cherry-scented sanitizer fills my nose.

I hate Dr. Stewart's office.

After thirty minutes of waiting in the exam room and staring at the crooked red rose on the wall, I'm ready to puke on his linoleum floor.

I am alive. I am dead. Dreams strive. Feelings shred.

Waiting. And waiting. _Jerk._ He always makes us wait.

The sun rises. The sun sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.

Finally, the door opens with a rattle, causing Mom to jump. She sits up straight in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the examination table, where I'm dangling my legs.

Doctor Stewart rushes in and talks fast. "Good morning." He studies my chart in one hand and uses his other to shake Mom's hand without looking at her. Stewart completely ignores me, as usual. _Stewart—zombie med pushing idiot._

"Just play along," says Honesti. "If you don't—"

"I ain't sittn' through another interrogation," says Bouncer. "This is America. We all got rights, 'cept for Reizo, that is. He don't deserve any."

The idea of voices in my head having rights is ridiculous. I nearly laugh, but stay stone-faced.

The time passes. The light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.

"Sorry for the delay," Dr. Stewart says. "We had an emergency on the second floor of the facility."

I know what that means. I'd been one of those emergencies last year. Stewart locked me up in that hole for four days. On that day, Stewart acted like he wanted any excuse at all to keep me. When I yelled back at Bouncer in the middle of Stewart's ridiculous exam, the doctor took the opportunity to hold me for observation.

Being stuck inside Willowgate was hell. When I tried to voice my objection to being held against my will, the doctor's staff forced me into a ten-by-ten waiting room, with two others hugging themselves in matching white straitjackets. They said I was unsafe. After that experience, _group hug_ has a new meaning.

I'm determined not to say a word to Bouncer or Honesti. Nope. I won't make that mistake ever again.

Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.

Dr. Stewart rolls up his chair, puts on his glasses, and sits directly in front of me. He looks up, finally making eye contact. Cold blue eyes shift behind bottle-lensed eyeglasses. Stewart reminds me of a praying mantis. Not the cute, fun kind, but more like a mad scientist bug, with the power to lock me up forever.

I imagine a bug in front of me, preparing to kill me.

"Reizo?" Stewart asks, his voice loud. "Reizo?"

The doctor's face comes back into focus.

"Sorry," I utter.

"You better get your act together," says Honesti.

"If that's possible," says Bouncer.

"How are we feeling?" Dr. Stewart asks.

We?

"Fine. I'm fine. Really, I'm fine," I say, rushing my words, glancing at the rose as if to ask it for help. "Feeling just great."

"You're blowing it!" shouts Honesti.

"Grab his pencil and stab his hand," says Bouncer. "Make a run for it."

_Shut up!_ I want to yell, but swallow hard instead. I clench my teeth as Honesti and Bouncer argue. I force myself to think of Aimee, her blue eyes and sweeping bangs, the sparkles on her pinky fingernails.

My breathing slows.

"Very good." Stewart scans the paper on his clipboard. He glances up at Mom, and then turns to me. Stewart's radar locks on. "You had a difficult night recently. Is that right, son?"

"Days? Nights? Flip him the birdy, boy," says Bouncer.

I want to yell back at Stewart. Tell him I'm not his son. But I don't say anything. My dad is dead. Dr. Stewart knows it too. I figure the doctor is just trying to push my buttons. My breath catches in my throat. "I—"

"Yes, he did," says Mom. She stands up and huffs. "We really must be going, Dr. Stewart. Now, is there anything else?"

Dr. Stewart takes in a long breath as he gazes at Mom. "I understand, Miss Rush, that this has been difficult. I promise, just a couple more questions, yes?"

Mom sighs. "Okay, but we're running late."

My chest feels as though it's being crushed. Rapid breathing. Sweaty forehead. I try to calm myself, but can't.

"Son? Go ahead and answer Dr. Stewart's questions."

_Breathe._ _Don't blow this exam_.

I think about Aimee's smile, her soft touch, and kind words. My breathing slows again.

Better now.

Aimee is probably waiting at the pond. Oh hell. I need to keep my act together.

I turn to Dr. Stewart and concentrate, taking my time with each word. "Well, I did have a small problem. I'm pretty sure it was from lack of sleep. Mom gave me a sleeping pill. I feel better now. Back on track."

Mom smiles, but her right cheek twitches.

I struggle to focus on Stewart's face, my eyes shifting. If I look away now, Stewart will know I'm lying. He'll know I'm off his meds.

I visualize the pond and stare at the mole on Stewart's large nose. I think about painting. "Really, Dr. Stewart. I'm feeling better. Thank you, sir."

I force a large smile and repeat my poem to myself.

I am alive. I am dead.

Dreams strive. Feelings shred.

The sun rises. The sun sets.

The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.

The time passes. The light goes.

Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.

Why should I care? Why do I cry?

Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.

"Good. Very good." Stewart takes my blood pressure. "Your pressure is a little high, but not bad." The doctor listens to my heart. "Good." He moves backwards and scribbles something on the chart. "Are you experiencing any new problems or issues you wish to speak about?"

_Hell no._ It's totally a trick question, but I'm not sure how to respond. I hesitate while I weigh each possible response and every reasonable outcome.

Mom starts to answer, but Dr. Stewart holds out a hand to stop her.

"Speak to the hand, huh. More like speak to the fist." Bouncer starts to sing, "Stop in the name of love."

I hide my smile.

"Stop it," says Honesti. "Good, Reizo. Stay focused. You're almost done."

"Really. I'm feeling good today." Another total lie, but I sound convincing.

"I'd like to keep you for a couple days of observation."

My heart skips.

"Oh no," says Honesti. "Not the straitjacket."

Dr. Stewart continues. "If you promise to stay in bed for three days, I think we can agree to let you return to your home. It is quite unfortunate, but all the rooms at the hospital are full. We have one or two for special cases. But I think you will do as I ask and stay in your own bed for three days, yes?"

"Yes sir," I say with a fake smile and fake respect.

At the same time, Bouncer and Honesti say, " _Yes, sir."_

"I'll make sure he stays in his room," Mom says. "Not a problem, doctor."

Stewart scribbles something on a small piece of paper. "Let us up the dose for two weeks, then taper back to the regular dose." He glares at me. "I have something else I want you to take, but only for three days."

"Sure. Whatever you think."

There's no way in hell I'm taking another one of his meds _._ I'd love to force Stewart to take some of his own medicine. Literally.

"Good." The doctor stands up, pulls out a handful of pill samples from his pocket, and then hands the samples to Mom. "Stop the normal sleeping pill for three days. Have him take these, along with his other meds. One pill each day at breakfast time. He'll feel quite relaxed."

Mom nods. "What are they? Psychotropic?"

Dr. Stewart raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed with her question. But I'm not surprised. Mom understands the lingo.

"No, no. Just something to relax him a little more for a few days."

The doctor turns to leave and I want to punch the air in triumph.

"Gag him," says Bouncer.

"I wish someone would gag you," says Honesti.

"In your dreams, baby," says Bouncer.

"Don't baby me," says Honesti.

I push the noise as far to the back of my mind as I can.

The doctor abruptly stops and gives stares at me.

I deliver a quick innocent half-wave, like I do when my teachers get suspicious. "Thanks Doc, for everything. I really mean it." _Gag me._

"Bullcrap," says Bouncer. "You're so full of it."

Stewart relaxes and continues to the door. "I'm glad you are feeling better, son."

Screw you, Doc. I'm not your son.

"He really is," says Mom.

"I want to see you in three months. Yes?"

"Yes, doctor."

"You're doing great," says Honesti.

Before Stewart walks out of the exam room, he stops once more. "We're on track with your treatment. I'll send my report to the court and a copy to your parole officer. The front desk will set up your next follow up."

Dr. Stewart turns and leaves the room without looking back.

Mom smiles and lets out a loud burst of breath, as if she's been holding it in the entire appointment. "That went well," says Mom, studying the pill samples. "I'll make sure you take one of these every day before I go to work."

"Are you really going to take the pills?" asks Honesti.

"Sure he will," says Bouncer. "Why not? But they won't help his sorry ass."

_Three days?_ _Screw that._

I told Aimee I'd meet her at the pond, but I don't have her phone number. Without a way to contact her, she'll surely think I've blown her off. I groan.

As I follow Mom out of the room, I straighten the crooked rose picture.

# chapter twenty-one

A day passes. Then another. And another.

How can he be so busy?

I'm changing the name of my castle painting. _Summer Tragedy_ —an oil paint pond with 3D acrylic waterfalls in its middle. I paint over the people and the dancing. I fire the string quartet and turn them and their stage into a hedge.

I feel numb as I sit back, shifting my gaze from my painting to the vegetation around the pond. _Did I say something wrong to him the other night?_ I allow my mind to drift and explore the feeling I get from the oak trees baking in the sun. Somehow, they give me strength.

As I begin to relax, I notice a glint of silver near the bushes where Aggie came through the other day. _Maybe Uncle dropped something?_

A pain shoots down my right arm when I stand. It takes a moment to catch my breath. I grab my water bottle and swallow a gulp of water, then rub my shoulder. But the ache persists.

When I reach the shiny silver, I realize it's not a coin. I squat down to take a closer look, still rubbing at my shoulder. The silver is a piece of metal stuck in the ground. Aggie must have scuffed the dirt that had covered it.

After I brush it off, I quickly realize it's a three-foot metal square with a handle. I grab the handle and pull.

Nothing.

I pull harder. Still nothing.

My shoulder aches, but I ignore it and grab with both hands. It doesn't budge. Whatever the thing is, it's buried deep.

I dig around the outside of the three-foot square to try and free it. I feel another pain under my collarbone—this time more intense, aching deep inside my shoulder joint.

A little rest at Uncle's place is what I need before I go home for the day. Calling Mom will just freak her out and cause her to overreact. I gather up my supplies.

The bushes rustle, which is weird because there's no wind. I suddenly feel hot, as if the sun is shining brighter.

"Ames?" a familiar voice says.

_Reizo?_ My stomach tightens. And then I see Reizo. I smile on the inside, but frown on the outside. He's wearing his tight jeans.

"Aimee?" His voice shakes slightly.

I feel calm energy radiating from him and look away.

"Hey," I grumble.

"Sorry for not showing up. I was stuck at home for a few days."

I ignore him and continue putting paints in Uncle's old tackle box. "Did they catch you or something?"

Reizo chuckles. It sounds forced. "Nope. No way anybody could catch me."

When I don't say anything, he clears his throat and continues. "Just a medical thing. Not a big deal."

Another pain shoots through my shoulder and I collapse to my knees. _Oh God, it hurts._ I clench my teeth and rub my shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks, standing above me.

Obviously I'm not, but what do I say? I try to relax and take in a long deep breath. "I think so. I'm having weird pains. I should go back to Uncle's house."

"Let me help you," Reizo says, but I'm already on my feet.

"Ow." I grimace. The pain is becoming more intense. There's more going on than just a muscle pull. It must be my heart again. I'm sure of it now. I put down the paint supplies. "I think I'm getting worse."

Reizo frowns and reaches out to help me stand. His touch is warm, but the pain in my shoulder keeps stabbing at me. I stumble again and groan.

"I'm picking you up," he says.

"No—" Before I can finish, Reizo picks me up in his arms and jogs toward Uncle Pete's house. God, he's strong.

Another shooting pain goes deeper. "Ow."

"Hang on," he says, moving faster. His breathing is heavier as I bounce in his arms. But he hangs onto me tight.

The pain throbs, stabbing at me. I close my eyes and groan.

I feel Reizo's concern for me. His jog turns into a run.

How he's managing to run with me in his arms, I have no idea. I'd pictured our first embrace way differently than this one. I'd imagined sitting on the grass in front of the pond as he held me. Feeling his electricity. Kissing his lips gently, then not so gently.

Before long, we're on the front porch of Uncle Pete's sprawling, one-story ranch-style house. Reizo puts me down on the bench, struggling to catch his breath.

"Shut up," Reizo whispers. He raises his voice. "She's in trouble. Not now!"

Is he talking to himself? "What?" I ask.

"Nothing." He knocks on the front door, but Uncle Pete doesn't answer. "Where could your uncle be?"

"Probably in the barn around back."

"Do you have your cell phone?"

I reach into my blue jeans and groan as I pull it out. He snatches it and dials 911 before I can object.

"We have an emergency. My friend Aimee De Lucca is having chest pains." Reizo listens for a moment, and then turns to me. "Describe the pains."

"Stabbing shoulder pain, running down my arm, and in the chest."

He relays the information to the 911 operator. "She has a history of heart problems," he says, and then turns to me. "What's the address here?"

A history of heart problems, that's me, broken-hearted Aimee. My breathing is shallow and my face feels damp, clammy.

"Ames. Please. Your address."

"Sorry." I tell Reizo Uncle's address.

He repeats it, then disconnects and hands me the cell phone. "They're on the way."

Uncle Pete appears from around the side of the house. "What in the world? Is everything okay?"

I cough. "Hi, Uncle." My voice is strained. "This is my—" I try to clear my throat. "Friend."

"Hi sir, I'm Reizo Rush. I just called 911."

"911?"

"Yes, sir. They want her to take a baby aspirin."

"I'll go get her one," he says, running into the house.

Reizo sits down next to me on the front porch swing. He puts an arm around my shoulder. Having him close feels like a dream. I realize how much I've missed him.

The pain eases slightly.

I breathe in his warmth when his hands touch my back.

"Hang in there," he says. "You're going to be okay, got it?"

I force a grin and nod. Tears stream down both cheeks. _I'm not ready. I'm not ready, Grams, not yet. Please not yet._

Reizo kisses me on the cheek.

I focus my thoughts on his lips.

"You'll be okay, Ames," Reizo says. He kisses me again, but this time below my right ear. "You have to be."

Uncle Pete runs out of the house with water and a baby aspirin.

I swallow it down as the paramedics approach.

"How you feeling now?" asks Uncle Pete.

I struggle to speak. "It hurts."

The paramedics pull up and hit the brakes, sending a gravel cloud into the air. A man and a woman in blue paramedic uniforms run to me.

Reizo moves out of the way.

The paramedics begin connecting wires to my chest and put a blood pressure cuff around my arm. They ask questions about my history.

Reizo's face goes pale. I feel uneasiness brewing like a thunderstorm. There's worry in his eyes, but it comforts me to know he cares. For a couple days, I thought he didn't.

Before long, the paramedics have strapped me onto a stretcher and are pushing it up into their vehicle.

I hear Uncle Pete say, "Thank you, Reizo. I'll ride back with Aimee and call her mother."

Reizo waves as the doors shut and Uncle crawls in next to the paramedic.

I'm not ready to go back, Grams.

The siren blasts as the ambulance accelerates away.

# chapter twenty-two

Watching the paramedics drive away with Aimee and her uncle is surreal.

_I'd give her my heart if I could._ Beautiful. Blue-eyes. Smiling Aimee.

"She's going to die," says Bouncer.

"Stop it," says Honesti. "We should think positive."

The voices debate the prospects for Aimee's survival as I walk back to the pond. It's not something I want to hear. "Shut the hell up!"

They ignore me and continue to ramble. Blood clot? Heart attack? Stroke? Something else? On and on they debate.

I walk as fast as I can to the pond. When I pass the oak trees, the voices go silent. Stillness grips the pond and the air feels heavy. I imagine crawdads lurking below the pond's surface. Frogs burrowing under muddy rocks. But no matter what I try to imagine, it's just not the same without her.

Aimee's artwork looks frozen in time on her easel. Her empty lawn chair waits for her return. The new piece she painted looks beautiful—acrylic contrasted with chalk and oil, all shaped into a 3D waterfall and castle. _Impressive._ She learns fast.

As I sit in Aimee's lawn chair, I'm filled with thoughts of her. The cute way she holds her head when I do something stupid, her perfect smile. She actually listens to what I have to say. She's the first one to do that, besides my mom.

I notice a tackle box of oil colors, acrylics, and painting supplies open with a brush in a Mason jar full of water. Another brush balances across the Mason jar's rim.

I'd give anything to have her next to me right now.

I carefully put her castle painting aside and take out a blank sheet. With a brush in my right hand and one in my left, I paint a white rose for innocence and a red rose for love. The brushes become extensions of my hands, flying like a hummingbird searching for a drink. It feels good to concentrate without two voices distracting me.

After thirty-minutes, I'm done, then carry everything to her uncle's house.

I use another piece of paper to write my home phone number and a note in wildstyle, " _Ames,_ _Please be okay. REIZO."_

I pick up my rose masterpiece, kiss it gently, and then set it back down.

# chapter twenty-three

Wire leads. IV needles. Oxygen tubes. Medical tests.

Time moves at a crawl as I count ceiling tiles of my hospital room and listen to the drone of a distant television. The burning in my nose from disinfectant ruins any desire I had for the wiggling orange gelatin on the table beside my bed. Instead, I sip tepid apple juice while I wait for test results in the boring place that's become my temporary home.

"Would you like anything from the cafeteria?" Mom asks, handing me a new novel to read while retrieving my apple juice cup.

"No, thanks." I turn to page one. Reading is what I need right now to escape my reality.

"I shouldn't be too long." Mom kisses me on the cheek and makes a quick exit.

Grams told me it'd be hard, but it just keeps getting harder. Worry lingers like a nagging cough. What will the doctor say? What does Reizo think about me now? I imagine the worst.

I do my best to ignore those thoughts by reliving the few moments I shared with Reizo. Thinking about the boy who colors the world. Tagging a yogurt shop after midnight. It's the only thing that helps me tolerate the waiting.

After more tests yesterday, another day of waiting for results begins. With one hundred and ten ceiling tiles watching over me, seconds stretch into hours.

Then I feel an old familiar energy, and smell a blast of Old Spice cologne. I hear Uncle Pete's cheerful voice. "Well hello there, Miss Aimee. You up for a visit from an old man this fine mornin'?"

My boredom instantly fades. I push myself to sit up and give him a big hug. "Hi, Uncle!"

I notice he's holding a couple of papers as he drags a chair closer to my bed and sits.

"Sorry, dear, meant to bring this to you earlier. This painting was on the porch with a note. That friend of yours is quite the artist."

My stomach spins when Uncle hands me a painting of two roses, one red and one white. A get-well message is above Reizo's signature tag.

Uncle Pete chuckles. "Haven't seen you smile so big in some time. When I first saw the painting, I had to put on my readers on. Dang if I didn't think two roses was sittin' on my doorstep. Reizo Rush, that's the boy's name, right?"

"Yeah, he goes to my school."

"Been a lot of years since I knew someone with the last name Rush." Uncle Pete gazes out the door of my hospital room. "A lot of years."

Uncle turns his head slightly with one eye squinting, as if he's looking through a telescope into my soul. "How long have you known the boy?"

"I've only gotten to know him over the last couple weeks. It's strange though, I feel so close to him." I cringe. I didn't mean to add in that last part.

Uncle Pete smiles. "Oh, those were the days." He hands me my cup of room temperature juice. "Young love."

"Uncle, stop." I reach over and push his shoulder, and then take a sip of juice.

He chuckles.

"Reizo told me he's related to Wesley Rush."

Uncle's eyes go wide. "The man I mentioned the other day?"

"Apparently."

"Huh. I didn't know any of Rush's relatives still lived in Franklinville." The wrinkles on Uncle's forehead deepen. "The nurses tell us we're darn lucky that Rush boy was with you..."

The room suddenly feels stifling.

"Reizo is my hero," I mutter.

I hold up the rose painting. It's amazing. Spectacular actually. Colorful. Two entangled roses pop off the page. " _Dear Ames,_ _Please be okay. REIZO_."

Sweat beads begin to accumulate along my hairline.

Uncle continues. "Some say Wesley's son suffered from mental problems too right around the turn of the twentieth century. Might be genetic or some such thing."

I take another sip of water, but I'm not thirsty.

Uncle clears his throat. "Does Reizo have any, um, problems?"

I gaze into Uncle Pete's eyes. He's only asking because he worries about me, but I don't dare admit Reizo has a history. No way will I tell him how Reizo leveled our school mascot during freshman year, ranting about a grizzly. Or how Reizo talks to himself and hears voices. Not a chance. The Reizo I met at the pond doesn't have those problems. He's the boy who adds color to the gray. Reizo is the sanest person I know—cutest too.

I shake my head no and gaze at the roses. Warm goose bumps run over my skin as I think about him painting it for me.

Amazing.

"He left a note with his phone number on it," Uncle says. "Seems pretty worried about you, dear. You might want to give your hero a call."

I try to hide my grin. "Thanks, Uncle."

Uncle Pete goes on to tell me about the ranch: how Aggie went to the pond looking for me, and how the rest of the animals on the ranch wonder when I'm coming home. Of course he's exaggerating, but it makes me smile.

Before long, Mom returns. "Well, hello Pete." She gives him a big hug.

"Aimee has her color back." Uncle Pete glances at the painting. "That boy who saved her can sure paint, can't he?"

I continue gazing at Reizo's painting.

"He's very talented indeed," Mom says. "A hero too in my book."

The doctor bursts through the door and his smile is the first clue that my luck might be changing. He takes my blood pressure. "Good. Well, good news. You did not have a heart attack. You experienced angina. All we need to do is adjust your medicine for now."

Mom and Uncle both smile at the same time.

"So I just need different medicine?"

"Yes. That's correct." He pauses and takes a breath. "But I'm not going to sugar coat it. There is a chance you might need surgery in the near future."

"Surgery? Why is that, doctor?" asks Mom.

"Well, Aimee's two-year-old heart valve replacement may not be working at one-hundred percent. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll release you, but just make sure someone is with you at all times for the next few weeks. In case there's another setback."

It's sort of good news.

When Uncle leaves and Mom goes down to the administrator's office to check me out and pay the bill, I change into a clean blouse and jeans.

While I wait in the chair next to my bed for Mom to return, I re-read Reizo's note and look at his phone number. _Should I?_ My hands tremble. Then I remember how Grams encouraged me to live my life. I take out my cell and dial.

"Hello?"

Hearing Reizo's voice is like drinking fresh lemonade on a hot summer day.

"Hi Reizo, this is Aimee."

A pause. "Hey."

"Thank you for the painting."

"Oh, um, glad you like it." Another pause. "How you feeling?"

My trembling gets worse as I hold the phone to my ear. I take a deep breath. "Better, thanks. The doctor told me I could go home today."

Another pause. "Cool. That's good to hear."

The conversation feels awkward, but the vibe I get from him is caring. I stare at the roses. _I want to see him._ Mom will need to go back to work. With Hank working, I'm pretty sure I'll be staying with Uncle during the day.

"I'll probably be at my Uncle Pete's house tomorrow if you want to stop by."

Another pause. "Cool." His voice breaks. "Sounds good."

Silence.

I've never been good at talking to boys on the phone.

The nurse walks in talking, but stops when she notices I'm on the phone.

"I need to go," I say. "Come by tomorrow if you can."

Another pause. "I will," he says softly.

"Bye." I press end on my cell and stare at the phone.

"Let's get you ready," the nurse says, stacking my books and magazines. "From what I hear, you were sure lucky you called 911 when you did."

I continue staring at the phone. "It wasn't luck. A boy I know called for help."

"Well, the boy is a hero. Saved your life. Remember now, if you feel pains again, call 911 right away. Don't wait."

I agree and thank her, along with the rest of the staff, as we leave the hospital.

On the way home, I plead with Mom to let me paint at the pond. Her answer is a solid no. She tells me there's no way I'll be allowed to paint alone. But after a good bit of convincing and a quick phone call to Uncle Pete, Mom agrees to let me stay at the ranch. Just like I thought she would.

Convincing Uncle Pete to let me go to the pond with Reizo will be way easier.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

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**From:** Carmina

**Reply-To:** Ridiculous attempt to search for me

**To:** General

**Subject:** Your rules need to be upgraded

Dear General,

We can settle our war this lifetime. All I ask is for some simple rule changes. You must realize by now that relearning the same lessons each lifetime is a complete waste of time compared to a lifetime where a soul can remember the truth from birth.

Your reincarnation system has created a civilization that celebrates individual egos. It justifies like-minded egos to gather and convince each other their truth is virtuous, each group proclaiming their cause more just, and their birthright more important at the expense of innocent lives.

I simply ask for a few small changes: No more _cause-and-effect_ impact from a bullying ego upon the lives of innocent men, women, and children. No more _free will_ of selfish egos affecting innocent souls without immediate consequences such as termination of the bullying ego who had inflict pain upon one or more innocent souls. No more death of innocents caught in the crossfire between competing ego factions. No more suffering. Joy in physical form. Refined _free will_ where choice impacts only the soul who makes the choice.

Please consider my demands or I will be forced to move forward with my plans against you. This time I will win. You will lose everything.

Warm Regards,

Carmina

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# chapter twenty-four

I groan and turn over in my bed. Bouncer is a terrible alarm clock.

"Fire!" Bouncer shouts. "Fire. Fire. Fire. Did you hear me, kid?"

"That's enough beauty rest for you," says Honesti. "It only makes you more tired."

"Get up," Bouncer says. "Lazy sack of potato peels."

"Shut the hell up!" I shout back.

Mom opens the bedroom door. "Is everything okay?"

The last thing I need is Mom staying home with me today.

"Sorry. Just a bad dream."

She gives me a suspicious look. "Alright. I'm off to work. What's on your agenda today?"

"Not much." I roll over and squeeze my eyes shut.

"Nice tuck and roll boss man!" shouts Bouncer.

"Be nice to him," says Honesti. "Use your inside voice."

"Whatever," Bouncer says. He's in a total mood this morning.

"I said stop," says Honesti.

I rub at my temples. It's way too early for a headache.

"I'll leave you some money," Mom says. "Why don't you go to the movies today? Get some popcorn and a soda. You know, enjoy your summer break?"

I sit up. _Huh_. A first. Mom has never given me money before, unless it was to grab a loaf of bread or buy a bus pass. "Mom? What's going on?"

Mom smiles proudly. "They made me maintenance supervisor yesterday."

It's good news for a change. I'm relieved. "Congrats."

"How exciting," Honesti says.

"We should celebrate this weekend. Maybe I'll bake lasagna." She hugs me. "Try to have a good day, okay? I wish I could be here. But—well, just stay out of trouble."

I know Mom really means it. If I screw up again, the cops will charge me with a parole violation, and the judge will revoke my probation. I'd get shipped to Willowgate with crazy Doc Stewart for a lot longer than I could tolerate—a fate worse than death. _I hate Willowgate._

"Don't worry," I say.

Mom takes a deep breath and lets her shoulders relax. "I'll be home around seven to cook you something before my night shift."

"Are we spraying tonight?" asks Honesti.

"Why bother spraying?" says Bouncer. "He's gonna die."

"Would you stop," says Honesti. "Please."

Working two jobs to make ends meet sucks, but Mom does it without complaining.

"I wish you'd quit your night job."

"I know. Me too. We'll see. I need to go. Love you honey."

She disappears out of my bedroom. A minute later, she's out the front door.

I decide to visit JT at the hardware store before I go to see Aimee. It'll give me the chance to exchange empties for more cans from the recycle bin.

I recover my stashed backpack from the bushes, then run to the hardware store to try and catch JT during his smoke break. I make it to the store before his break ends and find him smoking alone, outside the store.

The voices continue talking, but I keep focused. "Hey," I say, taking off the backpack. "Now a good time?"

"Yo Z-man. What's goin' down?"

"I just thought I'd trade in some empties."

"Sweet. I saved you some wild brights. The colors will pop on cement walls, brick even." He pushes the last bit of a cigarette into the planter box filled with sand and crumpled butts. "Hang tight for a second."

"Okay."

JT disappears into the back of the store. He returns a minute later with a black plastic trash bag full of used spray-paint cans.

"Your yogurt tag was epic, Z."

I replace my empties with cans from the bag. "Thanks. It did turn out sweet."

We both laugh.

"Dude, you need to chill a bit," JT says. "The cops are narrowing in on your ass. They're sniffing your trail, I'm telling you."

Bouncer goes nuts ranting about how every last cop wants me dead. Honesti tries to quiet him, but Bouncer doesn't listen.

I squint at JT. "What do you mean?"

"I think the cops have suspicions about you. I heard your name on a list of four other probables—mainly older gangster dudes with records. Best to go silent. Let the heat sink, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"Heat rises, but whatever."

"Z, I'm serious. You can't afford to get snagged after you've tagged." He chuckles at his stupid rhyme. Then his face turns serious. "Be careful, Z. I'm telling you. The Police Chief and Mayor are both determined. Ice your hands for a month or two. Chill for a while."

I zip up the backpack and throw it over one shoulder. "Thanks."

After we do our handshake ritual, I take off jogging in the direction of the pond.

# chapter twenty-five

Before Auntie Dee died, she used to keep the ranch house spotless and full of cooking smells. I loved her rooster-themed country-style decor and the flower box out front. It was always full of blooming wildflowers during the summer.

Ever since she passed, Uncle Pete struggles to keep the house clean. Mom pitches in to pay for a housecleaner once a month and occasionally hires a handyman to help with repairs. But no one tends to dear old Aunt Dee's flower box. The cooking aromas are gone and so are the roosters. But as I sit on Uncle's living room couch, I can still feel her warmth.

The screen door rattles. And rattles again. Someone is knocking on it.

Could it be?

Uncle Pete opens the front door. "Well hello there, Reizo."

The floor suddenly feels like rubber.

"Hi sir. I was wondering—"

I move from the couch and stand near Uncle.

Reizo stares at me for a moment, then glances away. His face reddens.

I love when he gives me his shy-cool-boy-look. It makes me want to run through the doorway and jump into his arms. But I resist. "Hi, Reizo."

"Hey," he replies, calm as a sharpshooter, shifting his gaze up at me. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

I feel his anticipation, excitement, and a touch of nerves all combined together. Reizo's energy feels nice today—the boy who saved my life.

Reizo looks taller than I remember, cuter too. Long brown hair lightly touches his broad shoulders. He's wearing a baggy green t-shirt and the same tight jeans. _He's gorgeous._ My face warms.

Uncle looks at me, then at Reizo. "Kids," he mutters, walking off and shaking his head. "Can I get you some water or a soda pop, Reizo?"

"Water is fine, sir."

Uncle Pete shouts from the kitchen. "You two go on. Have a seat on the porch. I'll bring it out!"

I walk outside and catch his familiar scent as I brush by him.

Reizo clears his throat. "I'm glad you called."

"Me too," I say.

"So you're really okay?"

"Yeah, they adjusted my heart medication. That was all I needed." I lead Reizo to the porch and sit on the bench, then tap my hand on the wood next to me.

Reizo sits down. His body language is confident, but he fidgets with his hands and seems to be very interested in Uncle Pete's carpet. "Cool. I was worried about you."

"You were?"

"Yeah. You looked bad." He looks up at me. "That castle you painted was cool."

At first I'm not sure what he means, then I remember the painting I had worked on at the pond. "Thanks."

Uncle Pete walks out with two glasses. "Here you go now."

I decide sitting on my uncle's porch sipping drinks is totally elementary school. We need a better spot. Somewhere we can talk. "Uncle, can Reizo and I take a walk to the pond?"

Uncle Pete hesitates, looking at Reizo, then at me again. "Don't see why not. Especially since we all think Reizo is a hero. The young mister saved you once already. Besides, it'll give me some time to tend to Aggie and some of the other animals round the place. Go on then, but stay together."

"Thanks, Uncle."

I collect my painting supplies.

Reizo helps me carry them. How can people think he's crazy?

I touch his hand and give it a squeeze, then let go, hoping he'll take my hand into his.

A moment passes before he gets it. He softly curls his fingers around my hand and gives me one of his sweet half-smiles.

I decide I'm melting. "You saved my life, you know."

He chuckles. "Guess we're even."

I raise an eyebrow as we walk toward the pond. _What does that mean?_

I can't explain it. Something special happens to me when I'm near her. It's like being home, but you haven't been there for a long time. It's like spending time in a dream with the most beautiful girl in the universe.

_But this isn't a dream_.

"What do you mean we're even?" she asks with a whole lot of determination.

"Tell her, Reiz, go on, you whiner," Bouncer says with extra attitude. "Exit. Remember? Or have you forgotten? Wimp."

Of course I remember, but I ignore Bouncer. It's my life. Bouncer is just a spy.

"Can't you be nice for once?" asks Honesti.

"He don't deserve nice," says Bouncer. "We'll never be able to activate him at this rate."

I flinch. Bouncer pisses me off, but I keep my focus on Aimee and manage to ignore Bouncer's latest attempt to rattle me.

"Nothing," I say, and then notice four official-looking men behind us in Rancher Murdock's grassy field.

The men setup hardware on tripods and peer into them.

"Who are they?"

"Not sure exactly. They might be doing a survey of Uncle Pete's ranch. Uncle told me he is putting the ranch up for sale next year." She frowns and squeezes my hand a little harder. Her breath catches when she adds, "It's just not right."

"Maybe he can lease it back or something." I try to sound upbeat.

"I wish. From what Uncle told me, they'll probably build houses or something on the land."

"You can't let that happen, Reizo," says Honesti. "He can't lose the land."

"What's he going to do to stop them?" asks Bouncer. "Spray-paint their hardware?"

I focus on Ames's voice and peer out at the ranch's grassy field, where horses graze on blades of grass and a cow follows Aimee's uncle into a barn.

_The pond makes Murdock's ranch a special place for me too._ It's just plain wrong, evicting nature from such a colorful playground, imprisoning life into some rich guy's cement. Destroying the one place in the world where the voices are silent.

"Houses invading your uncle's ranch would totally suck. Isn't there anything we can do?"

Aimee shrugs. "I don't know. He just can't afford the taxes."

"What will happen to all the animals?"

"Guess he'll have to sell them."

Bouncer spells it out: "G-o-n-e."

"It's not gone yet," says Honesti.

Bouncer deserves to get screamed at today, but I resist. I'd freak Aimee out for sure if I did start yelling. "I wish I could do something to help."

Aimee turns and smiles at me. Her hand feels soft as her fingernails tickle my palm. "I wish you could too, but thanks for the thought. It means a lot."

Finally, we reach the old oak trees. Bouncer and Honesti go silent, as if an off-switch is toggled. I feel so much lighter. It's as if someone has just shut off two cell phones blasting different kinds of music directly into my brain.

I squeeze Aimee's hand, and then let go.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. Better now."

We set up the easel and paints, straighten the lawn chairs, and are about to sit down when Aimee peers in the direction of one of the trees. "Hey, I just remembered. I found something the last time I was here."

I remember that day, carrying her in my arms. Worried she was going to die. It isn't a day I want to remember. "When you—"

"Yeah, that day . . . Let me show you."

I follow her to an oak tree, where she points down at an exposed iron square in the ground with a handle in its middle.

"What is it?"

She shrugs, bends down, and pulls up on the handle. It won't budge.

"Here, let me try." I squat down like I'm some kind of hulk, tighten my grip, and then yank it hard.

_Ugh_. It barely moves.

My hands slip. I stagger backwards, fall onto my butt, and then push myself back up to my feet as if I'd planned the klutzy move. _Awkward._ I brush myself off.

Aimee tries to hide a smile, but I see it. A giggle slips out. "Nice going, Clark Kent."

"Hey," I say, grinning and holding up one finger. "One more time. I got this. Guaranteed."

"Right. Use your inner Super Reiz." She sits down, smiling as if the show is about to really begin.

I grip the square metal handhold again, but this time I use both hands and yank. The metal square moves, but only by an inch. I yank harder.

It suddenly gives and pulls up like a door, one end swiveling up, the other end fixed to a hinge.

A burst of air hits me in the face, reeking of an old thrift store smell. _Gross._

I notice a rusty ladder attached to the square opening, but it disappears into the darkness below.

Reizo peers into the darkness. "What the—?"

I sniff at his warmth like I'm a white tailed deer and wonder what the crap I'm doing. How does he do that to me? I move in close and clear my throat. "What is it?"

Reizo glances up and frowns. "Looks like some kind of underground cave."

"A cave with a square door and ladder?" I get down on the ground next to him.

"It could be a septic tank." He smells the air. "No, probably not. It's musty, not crappy."

I hit him on the shoulder. "Reiz."

He smiles. "What?"

"My uncle said Wesley had a house near here. Do you think it could be a basement or storm shelter or something?"

It wasn't out of the question. Franklinville, Arkansas had seen its share of twisters. I'd heard stories about bad tornados wiping out farms and ranches back in the day. The last big one hit Franklinville fifteen years ago. An F3. The twister sideswiped the city center, but still managed to inflict chaos and major damage. Luckily, it didn't kill anyone. These days, the news media reminds everyone it's tornado season when the dogwoods bloom and spring causes me to sneeze until my head hurts.

Every year, during the first two weeks of storm season, Hank straightens out his six-foot-five frame and creases his forehead when he talks about building a storm shelter. But when the third week rolls around, his priorities shift to sitting in a fishing boat and casting during the few hours he takes off work.

Reizo scoots over to the edge and reaches into the darkness. "There's a ladder. But I can't see where it goes. What do you think?"

I don't answer. Instead, I strain to focus on anything below, but it's too dark. No way I'm going down into a bottomless pit. "You go first."

Reizo chuckles. "Right. Just in case there are rats or spiders or something else disgusting, like a mutant cockroach or a lost crawdad."

I give him my best innocent smile and scrunch up my nose. "Exactly."

Reizo turns around, pushing himself backwards feet first into the hole. "Here goes whatever."

He winks, and then disappears.

What the hell am I doing?

There's no way I can turn around now, even if it means dropping a hundred feet and breaking my entire sixteen-year old collection of bones. I'd at least impress her.

"Be careful down there." Aimee bites her lower lip. "The ladder might have rotted."

I touch the next ladder rung with the tip of my shoe and push myself backwards off the dirt until I'm standing on another rung. I quickly confirm it's solid metal, and step down another rung. But I still can't see the bottom.

Aimee leans over the hole and watches as if I'm the star of a live horror flick.

I tightened my grip and take another step down.

This is freaking nuts.

A tangy mustiness hangs in the stagnant air. I can tell it isn't mold, thanks to Mom. When I was younger, I occasionally went on cleaning jobs with Mom to save money on daycare. She taught me all the different colors of mold, allergic reactions, and where it grows.

I look up at Aimee and flex like I'm some kind of real-life Indiana Jones. I give her a thumbs up and then continue down until I reach the bottom.

A whistling breeze swirls around the pitch-black space.

How can there be airflow at the bottom of a pit? Vents maybe?

Then it hits me. Ames has to be right—it must be an old storm shelter.

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, there's a small amount of sunlight beaming through the square opening overhead, acting like a spotlight. I notice a dusty white candle on a small table next to the ladder with matchsticks in a round container. I take a match and strike it against a rough spot on the bottom of the container. The match crackles and flares.

I touch the candle's crooked wick with the flame to light the candle.

_Whoa!_ As I take a quick look around in the candlelight, I realize I'm not just standing in a storm shelter. I'm inside a freaking ancient storm shelter, filled up with artifacts.

"Ames, it's rat free!" I shout, although I'm not exactly one-hundred-percent sure of that after I say it. "Man, wait till you see what's down here. Come on. You're going to freak."

"On my way," she says, and starts down the ladder.

The space is about ten-feet by thirty-feet. Mortared river rock lines the walls and slick stone floor with two deep indents running across the floor's length to holes in the wall, presumably for drainage. Interlocking steel rails and wood railroad ties cover the ceiling, holding up a massive amount of earth eight-feet overhead.

There's a shelf built into one wall, stuffed with old rotting books that belong in the Little Rock used bookstore. A wooden desk and chair like you might see in some old western movie are against the far wall. A dusty cot has been turned onto its side against the other wall. Folded wool blankets, wooden boxes, different-sized strips of leather, clothes, stacks of dishes, cups and saucers, iron tools, silver spoons, and empty glass bottles fill one half of the room. From the look of the place and its contents, the shelter must be well over a hundred years old, probably a hundred-and-fifty-years old.

"The shelter looks like it was used for storage."

I move a box and a stack of wool blankets, then clear other old wooden furniture and boxes out of the way as I make an opening to the desk against the wall.

Aimee lights up another candle and stands beside me. "This place is so amazing. It's like a time capsule of buried treasure."

"Buried old junk, if you ask me." I move dusty boxes, old tools, and dishes to one side of the room.

Once I make room for the cot, I turn it on its legs and slide it to one side of the room, dividing the space into half: stuff and no stuff. When I reach a desk against the far wall, I sit down and gaze at a wall of wooden shelves full of books, old newspapers, and notebooks.

Aimee picks up a weathered box about the size of a shoebox with a square shape and made from wood. "Look what I found. It's heavier than it looks."

She opens the top. Inside, there's a yellowing paper glued to the wooden top, with a faded blue flower-pattern design printed on it with three columns of written description. Above the columns of text, "Symphonion" is printed in fancy-looking letters.

A metal disk with holes is inside the box. "The disk looks more like a dull circulating saw blade rather than a vinyl record."

"How do you think it works?" she asks.

I clear away a space on the desk and Aimee sets the box down. I notice a lever built into the box moves along one side, and another lever is on the other side. I slide one of the levers sideways. It clicks as I move it.

When it stops clicking, I pull out the second lever.

The metal disk begins to rotate.

Music fills the dimly lit shelter with beautiful sound, like ten music boxes playing all at the same time.

We smile at each other.

"Shall we?" Reizo asks, holding out one hand.

I scrunch up my nose. "Oh really? You're a dancer now—?"

Before I can finish, he takes my hand with his left hand and places his right hand around my waist. He's holding me in an old-fashioned dance-style, like Grams might have danced back in her day. He begins moving me in a tight circle within the cramped space.

I'm impressed. He's actually not a bad dancer.

We both giggle as the music box's metal comb plays a harmony of magical metallic notes while the antique disk rotates.

My mind drifts back to the last time I danced. It seems like a lifetime ago. Homecoming. Freshman year. Dancing with my friends—jock girls hanging together. Track and field mostly, but some swimmers and a few field hockey girls.

But after my heart failed a few weeks later, everything was different. Dances, parties, overnight invitations. My entire social life evaporated. The daily grind became school, home, meals, and sleep. That was it. I avoided dances during sophomore year. Of course, I love to dance, but I realized school dances aren't about dancing. Frankly, I just wasn't interested in the social scene. Some called me antisocial, but most didn't call me anything. Eventually, they all exited out of my life.

"Smile," Reizo whispers. "You're a good dancer."

I smile as he pulls me out of my silent pity party. One hand is still firmly around my waist; his other is braided finger-by-finger with mine. Peaceful. Warm. It feels safe in his arms, as if all my heart problems melt away.

We glide around the room, the metal disk rotating, musical vibrations resonating.

"Let's be present," he says. "Here—right now. In this moment."

His words surprise me as we sway. Stepping. Turning. _Present?_

Reizo is way different than I thought he'd be. Mysterious, edgy, sometimes out of control, he's an artist on a mission.

I shudder when he pulls me in tighter.

Time slows, notes linger. _Floating._

The music ends, but we continue to dance. I think he's going to kiss me for a second. He shifts his eyes away instead. I feel butterflies, but I'm not sure if they're his or mine.

We stop.

Reizo gazes at the bookshelf, then at the desk. "I wonder what else we can find? I'll check out the bookshelf, you check the desk."

Well, okay then.

I begin thumbing through the stack of old newspapers. "All mid to late 1800's, some early 1900's."

"Same with these: history books, biographies, and a few classics. Do you think your uncle knows about this place?"

I move aside the newspapers and pick up what appears to be a large sketchbook. "I doubt it. He told me the pond used to be a lake that was part of Wesley's property."

"You think all this stuff was my grandpa's?"

"Maybe." I open up the sketchbook. Pencil landscape and animal drawings fill the pages. A two-story mansion overlooks a picturesque lake with a field of crops in the background.

"These sketches are amazing." I notice the drawings are signed Wesley Rush. "Your grandpa was a really good artist."

Reizo takes a closer look. His eyes light up. "Yeah, he wasn't bad."

I open one of the drawers and find a small book with writing in it: _The Life and Times of Me—Thomas Rush—1895._ I read the first page aloud:

"My love for thee,

Sweet honeybee.

Never lost,

No matter the cost.

Ever yours, Thomas"

"Do you think this is the same Thomas your uncle was talking about?" Reizo asks, standing close, wrapping me in his warmth.

I clear my throat. "Yeah, it must be. I think Thomas would have been about our age around that time."

Reizo touches my hand with a static charge that causes me to pause. "What do you think the poem means?"

I try to stay focused on the book, turning the page, ignoring how the electric tingle he's delivering is attempting to take over my body. "Obviously Thomas was in love, but " _No matter the cost"_ sounds as if something bad was going to happen.

I turn the page and continue to read: "I hold your smoky ashes in my wanting hand and cry. My dear old friend, you've heard my story, been the keeper of my most private thoughts. My memories. My dreams. My hopes. I know it was not your fault. You never meant to reveal us. But Murdock turned into a wild boar when he saw us kissing on the lake's grassy bank after reading you. He sent Anna off to school, hoping our love would fade. And so, on this day and in this space, with great sorrow, I lay the ashes of my most cherished days, dear diary, to rest near the place where Anna and I first kissed. Spirit Lake. I promise to keep the rest of you here in my secret place. Father Wesley's old cyclone shelter. The one place in the world he told me to guard and keep secret for all my life. Goodbye 'ole memories."

"I don't get it," says Reizo.

I shake my head. "You can be pretty slow. He's writing about pages from his diary. Sounds like my grandfather found his old diary, which confirmed his feelings for Anna."

"But wait, I'm confused. I thought Thomas's father was Wesley?"

I think back on what Uncle Pete had recently told me. "Not at the time he was writing in this diary. I think his real father, Wesley, had already died. Thomas was probably being raised by my grandparents, the Murdocks."

Reizo frowns. "That's weird. Okay, maybe a lot weird."

"What do you mean?"

"They raised Thomas and Anna as if they were brother and sister. That kind of makes us related, sort of." Reizo searches through the desk drawers as I scan through more of the diary's pages.

He has a point, but I let it go since we're not genetically related. _Thank God._

The pages of Thomas's diary are full of daily descriptions of life on their farm: a cyclone, surviving illness, tending to business around the ranch. Getting up at sunrise, helping his adopted father with the cattle, cleaning the chicken cages. The first quarter of the diary mentions Anna before the section of torn out pages. When new pages start, Thomas writes about another girl, named Clara, who lived on a farm in a nearby township.

I continue browsing the pages. "Anna disappeared from Thomas's life by the end of his new diary. I think he must have married a woman named Clara instead."

"Check this out." Reizo holds up an old black and white photograph. It's a picture of a slim, gray-haired man in light pants, a jacket, and a bow tie sitting next to a woman wearing a long-sleeved gray dress with a white scarf over her head and tied under her neck. There's a teenage girl in a formal dress on their right, sitting with her hands folded. A teenage boy dressed like the old man is on their left. They're posing outside next to large oak trees that remind me of the trees around the pond. A large lake is in the background.

"The boy looks like you," I say.

He looks closer. "They sure don't look very comfortable."

"I think back in those days they had to keep still for a minute or two while the photographer took the shot—"

"Hey." Reizo starts to laugh. "Check this out. That dude may look like me, but the babe looks _exactly_ like you."

I lean in and take a closer look. _He called me a babe!_

"You're turning red," he says, smiling.

I roll my eyes. "Is there any writing on the back?"

Reizo turns over the picture.

1905—Thomas Rush, Lester Murdock, Jane Murdock, Anna Murdock.

Aimee puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

A chill runs across my back.

"Your grandfather and my grandmother were an item," she says.

"So Thomas and Anna were lovers, huh?" I wink. "Oh yeah."

Aimee pushes me playfully. "Stop." She chuckles. "Back in those days, it was probably a big deal getting caught kissing at their age—especially since they'd been raised under the same roof. From Thomas's diary, it sounds like Anna must have been sent away shortly after they took the picture."

"But Thomas was the Murdock's adopted son. Isn't that a little ridiculous? It's not like they were physically related."

"I know, but obviously people didn't think like we do now back in the late 1800's. I'd like to know more about Anna's story."

"She must have gotten married and had kids at some point..." I look at Aimee and raise my eyebrows twice. "Since you're here."

Aimee smacks me on the forehead. "Not helpful. Keep looking, maybe we'll find something else."

"Jeez. You don't have to keep hitting me." I grin and take a step back and scan the dimly lit storm shelter. "It's a strange feeling when you see a picture of a great-grandfather you never knew existed and you actually resemble him. Think about it. He was here . . . now we're here. Trippy."

Aimee continues searching through the desk. "More sketches, some school work, some writing. Most of it has Thomas's name on it. It looks like everything in the drawers belonged to Thomas. There are a few items that could have belonged to his father, but it's hard to tell."

"Thomas must have been the last one in the shelter after Wesley. Maybe he kept it secret after they leveled Wesley's house."

"It's weird, though." She picks up a handful of old black and white photos.

"What do you mean?"

Aimee peers at a photograph of a large house near a lake. "Why would they level an impressive mansion? It doesn't make sense to destroy such a big house. It almost seems like people wanted to forget about your Grandpa Wesley."

"True, but people did think he was crazy."

After I said it, I regretted it—so stupid. I'm one to talk about crazy, given that I'd been locked up. Being held prisoner in a place where a mad doctor can keep me forever is way worse than embarrassing. It sucks.

"Weird," she says. "It just seems odd to level a perfectly good house, especially if Wesley died. You know what I mean?"

I dust the cot off and sit on it. "I guess."

I watch Aimee's shadow move gracefully on the mortared wall and slowly shift my gaze as she sits down on the cot next to me. The glow of the candle highlights the softness of her skin. There's a flicker of magic in her eyes. Beautiful wrapped in kindness. Her movements are like watching a graceful dancer. I feel a wave pass over me, but it's not goose bumps. It's superheated air. Nerves and excitement all at once, my insides tense.

Aimee hands me Thomas's sketchbook and stops suddenly, as if she's felt what I'm feeling. She blushes at first, but then her eyes soften, as if she's inviting me to kiss her.

Is she? How can I tell? What if she's not?

I move in close, until my lips are a couple inches from hers. She shutters when I touch her arm and glide my fingers across her bare skin until I reach her hand.

_Should I? But—_ I suddenly feel like I've overstepped. Why would this girl be interested in me? I'm the crazy kid who talks to himself like an idiot. The dude other kids whisper about and avoid, the one with voices ranting in my head.

Just as I'm about to stand up and apologize for overstepping, she touches my face with her fingertips and everything changes.

I breathe him in and let my lips touch his lips in the dim light of the old storm shelter.

It's hard to separate his feelings from mine. It's like trying to sort a bowl of mixed up colored beads, some his, some mine. I feel our hearts beating as I run my fingers like a comb through his long hair and kiss him deeper.

I barely know Reizo, but I feel as though I've always known him. It's such a stupid thing to say, but damn it, it's true. I stop thinking and open myself up to feeling everything, his pulse quickening. Wonder glows around him and mystery swirls behind his eyes. I feel shivers and close my eyes. Breathing is overrated.

But sadly, breathing is required.

We both lean back and silently gaze at each other. I don't know what to say. I've never felt so connected with someone before. But what if he feels different? What if?

"I'm sorry," he says. "I—"

I push my index finger on his lips, then replace my fingers with my lips and kiss him again. He's an amazing kisser. Our embrace tightens.

His touch sends tingles twirling over my skin.

Reizo's bright eyes shift to the floor, his face turning a rose color in the candlelight. A sideways smile grows across his face— _the boy I just kissed_.

He feels the same way I do. I'm sure of it.

I try to enjoy the moment, but my mind wanders. I think about the things we've said to each other. The looks we've shared, his soft, shy spirit. Then I remember something odd he said to me when we talked about how he'd saved my life, _"Guess we're even."_ He said it bluntly, yet he wouldn't talk more about it when I asked. _Even at what?_ It's not like we made a bet, played a game of chess, or exchanged money.

I lower my voice. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he whispers.

_Should I?_ My little voice says yes, but my nerves make me hesitate.

His face tightens. "What?"

"What did you mean when you said, _we're even_?"

His breathing suddenly becomes erratic and he taps one foot, as if he has a twitch that won't stop. I feel waves of tension coming from him. Maybe I shouldn't have brought it up. Did I ruin our first kiss? Am I asking too many questions?

"Did I say something wrong?" I ask.

His eyebrows furrow and he stands up. "No. I didn't mean anything specific. I'm just glad you're okay." His response is quicker than it should be.

I'm not buying what he's saying. Something is really wrong. I can feel it, but I'm not getting it. I've clearly upset him. _Why?_ I think back to the day I first met him. The day he showed up at the pond.

He takes three quick steps to the storm shelter's bookcase, keeping his back toward me.

I've rattled him, but I keep pressing.

"Why did you come to the pond on the last day of school? You know, when we met for the first time."

_Was_ _he spying? Following me? Stalking me?_

He shakes his hands out as if he's about to run a one hundred meter sprint. "I didn't know you'd be at the pond that day. Is that what you're asking?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, fumbling through books on the shelf.

"Not exactly." I pause a moment. "I just remember you seemed nervous that first day, sort of like—why is it we'd be even?"

He turns toward me. His intense stare reminds me of the crazy Reizo from school. There's an invisible hand pushing me away, yet I still feel kindness from him—it's a weird combination.

"Yeah, that's it. I saw you and instantly got nervous. Like always. That's right. You make me freaking nervous. Exactly." His eyes shift as if he's trying to decide to bolt or not, fight or flight.

What the hell? I have no right to press. I need to defuse this situation.

I stand and walk to him. I gently take both of his hands into mine. "I'm sorry, Reizo. I didn't mean—"

He lets out a sigh and takes in a deep breath, then speaks soft and slow. "I know. I'm sorry too. I overreacted. Like I always do." He pauses until it becomes uncomfortable. "I—"

I take his right hand in mine, lead him back to the cot, and we both sit down. "It's okay. Honest. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. Forget it."

His energy changes back to the sexy Reizo. "I should . . . tell you."

I try to make myself appear calm, but I'm not. "Tell me what?"

"What they say about me is true."

I'm still not following what he's trying to say. "What who says?"

"Everyone at school. Dr. Stewart, Principal Rutworth, Moser."

_What is he talking about?_ "I'm not following, Reizo."

"I'm crazy like my Grandpa Wesley."

An awkward moment passes before he continues. "I hear voices."

"What do you mean?"

"Voices talking inside my head."

I start to chew on my thumbnail. I'm not sure I like where this is going. _Why the hell did I press?_

"Are you hearing them now?"

Reizo shakes his head no. "It's weird. I usually hear them everywhere, day or night, but not when I come to this pond. When I walk past the oak trees, the voices in my head disappear. Gone. Silence."

His eyes fill with tears.

"What kind of voices?"

"It's the same two all the time."

"What do they say?"

Tears trickle down his cheeks. "I— I just couldn't take it anymore, Ames."

I try to process what he's saying as I wipe his tears with my hand. He believes he's crazy, but I know he's not. The Reizo I know is thoughtful, seriously artistic, sexy. Not crazy.

"I don't think you're crazy, Reizo."

His drooping eyes say he doesn't believe me.

"I'm serious." Then, before I think, I blurt out, "You promise not to say anything to anyone if I tell you something about me?"

He nods. "Sure."

I suddenly have second thoughts. _Should I?_ It does seem like share time. But—

"It's okay, honest." He grins. "It couldn't be as bad as hearing voices."

"You know my heart gave out while I was running during a track meet, right?"

"Of course, everyone in Franklinville knows that. The coaches revived you."

"Actually I died for a while, but then came back."

"You died?"

I nod. "What would you say if I told you when I was dead, I spent time talking to my dead grandmother?"

He turns his head slightly. "You probably just relived memories about her—dreams, right?"

"No, Reiz. I sat with her here at the pond when I died. We talked. I mean really talked. She was real and I was dead."

"You were in heaven?"

Huh, good question. I never thought about it from that perspective.

"All I know is that I visited with my dead grandmother and we talked about my life."

"What did she say?"

"Our lives are a gift. Each of us should just experience it and not worry about messing it up. The weirdest part was we weren't _here_ , we were _there_."

"Where's _there_?"

"That's the thing. I'm not exactly sure. It was like a heavenly version of the pond: bright, vibrant, amazing color. More real than real. I felt totally at peace and filled with love." Welled-up tears release down my cheeks. "It was a joyful, amazing place. I don't think it was on Earth."

I've said way too much. Now he's probably thinking I'm a delusional girl with a defective heart.

Reizo brushes my tears away, his eyes soft and understanding. "I'd say cool . . . That's what I'd say." His voice turns serious and the lines on his forehead deepen. "But if that place, _there_ , is so awesome, why did you want to come back _here_? You know? This place sucks."

I push his shoulder playfully. "It doesn't suck. Every life is special. She told me not to waste mine. Your life is special too, Reizo."

"My life is special? Seriously? It sounds to me like the special part was being _there_ , not being _here_."

"Grams told me I had things to do in this life. Experiences to experience. It just wasn't my time yet."

Reizo stares. The intensity of his hazel eyes causes my heart to flutter.

"What things?" he asks.

"I can't remember exactly." I sigh. "All I know is everything changed for me after that experience with Grams. My life is different now. I don't care about the mall, what new purse or shoes to buy, or school gossip. Those things are a waste of time." My face warms. "I feel thankful now when I take in a breath. When I taste something salty or sweet. When my lips kiss the lips of a boy named Reizo Rush."

Reizo chuckles. "You're the poet, not me." He abruptly stands up and begins to pace, rubbing his hands together. "I'll tell you why I came to the pond."

An awkward moment passes as I watch him pace.

Then he stops and takes a long deep breath.

"I came to the pond to die."

# chapter twenty-six

Aimee's expression changes from surprise to concern.

Why did I bring it up?

An awkward moment stretches into a painful moment. _She deserves to know._ I stop pacing and sit down next to her.

"You were going to kill yourself?" she asks.

When Aimee says the words, they sound harsh. Brutal. Industrial with sharp edges. It doesn't sound anything like it did when I said it to myself a million times.

Where do I start?

"I just can't take the pain anymore, okay?"

I prepare myself for a lecture. I'm sure she's going to freak, call me an idiot, or tell me to get away from her. But she surprises me. She doesn't do any of that. Instead, she wipes tears from my face and embraces me.

What the hell?

"I—I just can't take the noise anymore, or the way the meds turn me into a compost heap, or the way people look at me . . . I—"

She leans back and probes deep into my eyes.

I want her to understand how the voices constantly beat me down. How the meds mess up my ability to do what I love. How I constantly attract anxious stares as if I'm about to go kung fu master on some random stranger's ass. I'm a defective human. Stuck on a misfit island of one. Lonely. Depressed. Occasionally locked up in a mental hospital. I'm so freaking lame. I want to scream, but I start to cry instead.

"A bottle of my mom's pills," I whisper, tears dripping from my eyes. "I figured I'd take a nap near the pond and never wake up. It was my way out."

The concern in her eyes changes to sadness, as if she feels my swirling confusion. Making her feel sad is the last thing I want her to feel when she gazes at me. But honestly, I expected her to react differently. She's not making fun of me or telling me how stupid I am. Instead, she's actually listening.

"What about the meds your doctor gives you? Don't they work?" she asks softly.

"The voices stop, but the meds turn me into a creative zombie. I feel like I'm the walking dead. My desire to spray wilts. I don't feel like doing anything, not even throw-up tags. Hell, even if I felt like it, I couldn't do one. I suck. The meds lock me into a place I hate the most. Cement walls. Asphalt roads. Steel beams. A gray world."

Her voice softens, and she talks slower. "If there was a doctor who could prescribe the right meds for you that allowed you to create, would that help?"

"My mom tried everything. I can't go back to crazy Dr. Stewart. He'll lock me up forever at Willowgate. I don't trust the jerk."

She rubs my back with a soft, caring touch. "I know how it feels to be overwhelmed," Aimee says. "How it feels to be on Misfit Island, as you say. I know how it feels when everything closes in and you feel so lonely it crushes you. Feeling lost. Worthless."

I'm shocked. "You know how it feels?"

I see angst in her eyes. "Yeah, I do. I feel that way occasionally. But I'm pretty sure everyone feels that way sometimes. When it gets bad, I think of something I love. I force myself to believe that I'll feel better. I have faith a better day will come. Even flowers in full bloom have a bad day, but a bee eventually comes by and lands on it. Think of your Mom and how much she loves you."

Aimee's words hang in the air with the smell of gardenia flowers, her bright eyes full of passion.

I think about Mom and how she'd feel if I was gone. _Damn_. I hadn't considered any of that. All I wanted to do was escape the voices in my head. It's hard to think straight with voices rambling all the time.

My throat thickens. I can't speak. When I'd thought about it to myself, my plan felt right. It was my way out and a way to get rid of my trespassers. Yet when Aimee says it so clearly, I know it's not the right thing for me to do.

"I think you just need a better doctor, Reizo. We need to find one that can adjust your meds, get you on the right combination. I'm sure we can find one that will help you and not turn you into a zombie. Will you at least try?"

When she says _we_ , I like it.

Aimee continues without waiting for an answer. "Grams told me everyone has life to experience and things to do. You, Reizo Rush, have things to do too."

"Like what kind of things?"

"Like adding color to the gray. Just like you told me. Your art puts smiles on faces when people see the color you've added. You amaze kids with your creativity. I saw the magic you created after we painted the yogurt store." She pauses. "When you feel bad, will you talk to me about it? I'll listen. I promise. Put your exit plan away for good, okay?"

I agree. "So your grandmother told you everyone has a purpose?"

"Not one purpose. More like lots of things to do, being alive, experiencing life. Does that make sense?"

I hesitate, trying to think of something positive to say. "Sort of, I guess."

"I'm pretty sure she told me a lot more too. But I can't remember everything. I do know this life thing is a gift each one of us should cherish." She takes my hand and firmly grips it. "Promise, Reizo, that you won't give up."

I wipe my face. At first I'm not going to answer, then I surprise myself. "I promise."

I feel lighter after I say it, as if a massive weight has been lifted. If I'd pulled off my plan, I wouldn't be embracing Aimee now. I wouldn't be here at all. What else would I have missed out on? Who else would I have hurt by giving up?

Aimee kisses me. It's strangely sweeter. She runs her fingers through my hair when our kiss ends.

"Come on," Aimee says. "We better get back. Uncle Pete might be starting to worry." She returns the diary to the desk. "I should tell him about this place."

"It'd probably be a good idea. But do you mind if we keep this place secret for a little while longer? I want to see if there are any more photographs of my grandpa Thomas before other people start searching through the place."

"Sure. No problem. The Franklinville Historical Society will go nuts when they find out. But it can wait. I'll borrow a lantern for our next visit. You want to come back here tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that'd be cool."

I blow out the candles and start up the ladder, with Aimee following close behind.

When we are both out of the shelter, I snap off a big bush and use it to cover the metal hatch to hide the entrance.

# chapter twenty-seven

My brain is in overload. Tossing. Turning. I can't sleep.

His cute laugh. His half-smile. Shy. Passionate.

Reizo Rush.

I want to kick myself. _Why'd I tell him?_

I hit my head lightly with both hands. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._ I swore I wouldn't tell anyone. _I'm an idiot._

But it felt like I should be honest after his confession. _He was going to take pills at the pond? Oh my God._

I need to get him help, a better doctor, someone that can work with him professionally. I'll do research. Find a doctor who'll get him on meds that won't destroy his creativity.

Mom will help.

I wonder what it'd be like to hear talking in my head all the time. I can't imagine how hard it must be to carry on a normal conversation with voices talking.

A sharp pain suddenly shoots down my right arm. My entire body flinches and I grimace.

Breathe, Aimee. Breathe.

A few moments later, the pain subsides. I shake it off. I probably pushed myself too hard, but I refuse to be weak. I can power through the pain. I know I can.

As I finally relax, my eyelids grow heavy and my thoughts float above me. An ancient storm shelter full of old books. Old family stories. Old photos. Thomas's diary—his heartbreaking love story with my great grandmother. What are the odds?

Reizo's second great-grandfather Thomas was in love with my second great grandmother. Poor great grandmother Anna—sent away because she loved him. I wonder why they didn't send Thomas away instead?

I never thought I'd be interested in ancient family history. But after seeing the old picture and reading Thomas's diary, I want to know more about their life.

I yawn again and turn on my side, scrunching up the pillow under my head.

Thomas and Anna.

Something bothers me about the way Wesley Rush died, but I can't put my finger on it. In US History, Mrs. Robins told us that deaths during childbirth happened back in those days. And people died from lots of other common things: fever, sickness, and accidents. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that Wesley's wife, Ethel, died during childbirth.

But the strange part was that Wesley died after being committed to an asylum. It happened suddenly. He just died inside the hospital.

I turn over on my other side and readjust my pillow. I suppose it could happen. Maybe he was depressed? Maybe he couldn't handle the loss of his wife? Maybe he'd become ill?

Still, Wesley had a son who needed him. Why wasn't the man stronger? Instead, Wesley totally lost his sanity and was committed? Then he died? It feels suspicious. Or maybe I'm just thinking too much again.

Yet the mansion is the weirdest part of the entire story. The huge house was just torn down after Wesley was committed. There wasn't a fire or natural disaster or some other accident. Who flattens a perfectly good house? Especially back in the 1800's. It makes no sense. They could have sold off the materials to build another house or a barn? But wouldn't my great-grandparents have wanted to keep a beautiful lakeside mansion?

I know I would keep it.

My thoughts swirl again to the old family picture with the lake in the background. Today, all that remains is a pond and the storm shelter.

It's creepy how much Reizo and I look like Thomas and Anna.

I fight off another yawn. A smile stretches across my face.

Thomas was cute, just like Reizo.

Twisting and turning, I roll over again, scrunch up my pillow, and force my eyes closed.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

How may I be of service, General?

>>system status

running..............

Cloud: I am done with system check.

>>report

System Online

Cloud Memory: Unstable

Upload Status: Unstable

Download Status: Unstable

Pairing Status: Unstable

Experience bell curve status: Deviating increasing

Error rate: Exceeding Acceptable Tolerance

>>special status update

Password: *********

10 Followers Active

94 Followers Lost

12 Enforcers Active

57 Enforcers Terminated

491,284 Innocents Lost

Warning: Unrest continuing to grow

>>search special status

Password: *********

>>command

?Please specify command?

>>update on reizo rush

Located Artifacts

Located Last Will and Testament

Key Not Found

>>command

?Please specify command?

>>interrogate

?Interrogate who?

>>reizo rush

?When would you like to do so?

>>now

Followers notified

>>logout

Good-bye General

Login:

# chapter twenty-eight

Franklinville Rooster Cineplex—a three-story chicken-processing factory refurbished and converted into a movie theatre. When it opened two years ago, customers eating popcorn and watching movies complained about a faint, leftover chicken smell. Seriously disgusting. It didn't take long before Franklinville's city council issued a special permit to build a sit down restaurant inside the Cineplex. Of course, the owners decided to serve fried chicken. _Brilliant._ No one noticed the smell after that.

The Cineplex building's location isn't as secluded as the yogurt store, but a large parking lot out front will prevent security patrol surprises. Three hours. That gives me plenty of time to finish spraying before the security patrol shows up at 4:30 a.m.

"Why are you doing this?" asks Honesti. "This isn't smart."

"Smart? Blah-ha-ha!" shouts Bouncer, laughing. "Reizo? Smart? He's about as dumb as dumb gets."

"Stop it," says Honesti.

The voices have been debating nonstop since I left the pond—ranting as usual. My stomach twirls like a marching band baton.

I focus on the image of Aimee in my mind as I climb the fire escape to the roof, pushing raving noises to the back of my mind. Dancing. Pinky fingernail sparkles. Dazzling eyes. Our kiss. I groan when I think about what I'd admitted to her.

"How you feelin', babyman?" asks Bouncer. "Wanna cry?"

Bouncer makes my blood boil. "Shut the hell up for once!" I shout at the top of my lungs. With no one around the Cineplex, I'm not worrying about being heard.

"You don't have to yell, boss man," says Bouncer. "So touchy. You can yell and we can't? Hypocrite."

"Easy big guy," says Honesti. "Isn't that right, Reiz?"

Why did I admit it? Why did I tell her?

"You don't have long," says Honesti. "Better get started."

"Both of you. Shut up!"

"Uh oh. Reizo is being serious . . . for once," says Bouncer.

"Like I'm not usually?" I shout at the night sky. "Would you both just give me a break?"

"Easy, Reizo," says Honesti.

Surprisingly, the voices go silent. I drop my backpack on the roof and set up twenty-five spray-paint cans. The project will take longer than the yogurt store. To do the entire wall, I'd need more spray, but the piece I have planned won't cover the entire wall. Instead, the wall will look as if it has giant peepholes in it, each hole revealing a 3D scene inside the old building.

I take out the stencils, paper, brushes, chalk, three plastic bowls, breathing gear, and gloves. Then I put on the gloves and pull the breathing filter over my face.

"It's the human bug man," says Bouncer. He laughs. "Buzz. Buzz. Bug man."

I adjust the paint caps. Everything I need for the top two stories of the Cineplex go back into my backpack. I didn't think I'd ever need a harness again. But luckily for me, JT found another one in the hardware store's returned equipment box.

"Be careful, Reizo," says Honesti, her voice sounding strained.

I visualize little yellow chickens, a rooster, cows, horses, and a bull peering downward from the side of the building at moviegoers standing in line while waiting to buy tickets from them.

With the rope tied to a roof vent, I crawl into the harness and secure the backpack of supplies over my shoulders. Carefully stepping over the side of the roof with one foot, then the other, I lower myself to my first target and spray the image in my mind.

Farm animals: chickens, roosters, a bull, and chicks.

Back up to the roof I climb, retrieve more spray, then return to dangle over the box office and paint the bull sitting in a folding movie chair. One hoof is out to take money from customers as he eats popcorn and gulps a large soda. Seriously a badass bull. Pay your moo-la here.

I spray in a goofy rooster. Brown-orange body and long black tail features, sharp red comb and wattles, wicked eyes the size of bowling balls. I realize I'm smiling as I spray, but it's not about the rooster. _Aimee listened to me. She understood._

My thoughts stay on Aimee as I spray using both hands. She died, but lived to talk about it. It changed her life. Yet she's not upset about it. She's actually happy she talked with her dead grandmother.

With the second and third stories finished, I lower myself to the ground. An hour to go, I need to pick up the pace.

The piece includes a massive ranch and a chicken coop with a dozen chickens. It'll definitely make people smile. I spray a wildstyle, "REIZO." The piece is done with time to spare.

" _The bee eventually comes by and lands on the flower,"_ she'd told me.

I lower myself to the ground and step back to get a good look at my latest creation. Each colorful peephole tag on the wall is full of action, color, shading, and dimension.

For the first time in a long time, I'm happy. I'd almost forgotten the feeling. I laugh, fall on my butt, and gaze up at the piece. It's my best tag ever. _Aimee inspires me._

"You better move it, funny boy," Honesti says.

"Yeah, move your skinny rear..." Bouncer adds.

I ignore them.

"Move your ass!" Bouncer shouts.

I don't let the loud-mouthed idiot spoil my moment.

"You should listen to him," Honesti says. "Please, Reizo."

"Alright already! Can't I even have a moment?"

"Jeez," Bouncer says. "You're always yelling at us."

"Why are you taking so long?" Honesti asks.

I guess they have a point.

Time to bolt.

# chapter twenty-nine

Uncle Pete reluctantly agreed to let me meet Reizo at the pond. But after an hour in a lawn chair watching the fish jump, I'm done waiting for him.

I pull open the hatch door of the shelter and climb down the ladder. Uncle Pete's lantern lights up the mortared river rock walls and railroad tie ceiling. Cabinets built along one side of the shelter grow upward into shelves full of books extending to the ceiling. The book covers look new, but a faint musty smell tells me different. The aroma reminds me of Franklinville's downtown thrift shop, specializing in antiques, used clothing, old ragged books, and historic newspapers.

As I browse through the books, I realize most are first editions from the 1880's to early 1900's: Sherlock Holmes, The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Hedda Gabler, How the Other Half Lives, Tales of Soldiers and Civilians. They must be worth a fortune.

One particular book catches my attention. It's written by Emily Dickinson and entitled, _Poems_. When I pull the book out, I notice a silver-gray plate built into the mortared stonewall. I pull a few other books off the shelf to get a better look.

The metallic plate is the size of a large picture. A numeric dial and silver hand lever are fixed in the middle. _It's a safe._ But why would there be a hidden safe in an old storm shelter?

I twist the lever to open it, but it doesn't budge. Obviously, I need a combination, like I use for my school locker.

I step back and peer at the built-in safe, as if the combination might magically pop into my mind. Of course, I know that's ridiculous. I have no idea what it could be. Not even a guess. I try moving the lever back and forth.

It doesn't move.

I gaze at the shelves and continue searching the cabinets below the bookshelves. The cabinets are loaded with stacks of plates, empty crystal decanters, and serving bowls. The contents seem to be a haphazard mix of household items from the 1890's.

Inside another cabinet is an empty leather satchel, a stack of old _Franklinville Journal_ newspapers from the 1890's, and more of Thomas's journals. I don't find anything related to a safe combination.

I return to the desk.

Everything I find in its drawers appear to belong to Thomas. Love letters to Anna, old pencils, stamps, and inventory files on cattle, horses, chickens, and pigs—nothing about Wesley or a combination. The shelter must have become Thomas's private storage shelter after Wesley died.

I peer up the ladder at the opening. There's still no sign of Reizo. He's way late. I check my cell phone. No missed calls. I let out a huff and continue searching.

After two more hours, Reizo still hasn't arrived. He's blown me off. I feel like a fool. He told me he'd be here. Why'd I get my hopes up? I'm so stupid.

Just as I'm ready to leave, the back of one of the drawers catches my eye. The wood backing appears to be partially broken. When I push on it, the wood easily splinters and breaks inward.

Behind the broken drawer backing, there's a space. I pull the pieces of broken wood out and see a small, rolled up piece of paper tied with a piece of rough twine. I take off the twine, unroll the paper, and read it:

FOUR STOPS

Turn dial three times left to 51

Turn two times right to 22

Turn one times left to 13

Turn right to 0

-Wesley R.

It's sort of like my school locker combination, except for the extra turning. Maybe that's how old locks worked back in the 1800's. I rotate the dial, but mess up a couple of times until I manage to stop on each of the numbers written on the paper after turning the dial the number of times it says. Finally, I turn the dial right to the number zero and twist the handle.

Still nothing.

I jiggle it and twist again.

Bingo! It opens.

Inside the safe, five tall stacks of gold coins are on top of an empty leather pouch and loose papers. The top paper is a letter from Wesley:

To the finder of these papers, take this money and run to the feds. I have lost my battle with the dishonorable Mr. Sarov. The Russian immigrant is buying up all the land he can grab. The man is determined like a prized bull to take my land, my home, and most probably my life. He convinced Franklinville's only judge that yours truly is insane. But I am sane! I am sure General is behind this entire mess.

My Last Will and Testament is attached to this note. Thomas and my best friend Lester are the beneficiaries. Two trusted lawyers in the township signed as witnesses attesting to my sanity. When both men were murdered yesterday, I decided to pen this here note.

General will stop at nothing to keep the secrets I know buried. People are saying a faulty carriage wheel shattered when it ran into a deep hole in the road and killed the men. But that is a lie.

Signed, Wesley Rush.

I can't believe it. Could Sarov be related to Zeke Sarov from school? And who is General? My heart pounds as I flip through the papers. Page after page of lists: cattle, horses, chickens, the home, the barns, property, stocks, railroad bonds, and maps with markings covering a huge area of land in Franklin County.

Does that mean all the property goes to Reizo? To my uncle? To my parents? To me? I need to show the papers to Mom. She'll know what to do.

I stuff the money into the pouch and use the leather satchel I found in the cabinet to hold the documents, the Emily Dickinson book of poems, and the pouch of gold coins. I switch off Uncle's LED lantern and leave it behind, then climb up the ladder. It takes both hands to close the hatch.

Above the shelter, there's still no sign of Reizo. I feel worse than a fool. He totally blew me off.

I shouldn't care that I told him I'd keep the place secret until he goes through it. But I do care. I let out a frustrated huff and cover up the entrance with the large bush Reizo had broken off. I'll keep my word, even if he's a forgetful jerk.

Ow. My shoulder joint burns. A pain starts in my shoulder and moves to my chest. I decide to go back to Uncle's house and lie down, but hesitate. If I don't tell Mom about the shelter, how will I explain the papers and money?

I look at the muddy bank and know how to explain it. I rub mud all over the satchel so it looks like it's been buried for a hundred-and-fifty years. It takes a few minutes, but it works. The mud and pond muck make the outside of the satchel look old. I'll tell Mom I found the satchel buried near the pond.

Before heading to Uncle's house, I sit down to catch my breath. A scary thought comes to mind. What if Reizo went through with his plan? Oh God.

A sweat breaks out on my forehead and my heart sprints hurdles.

"No, Reizo. No," I mutter, using pond water to wash the muck off my hands.

Then a familiar voice interrupts my train of tragic thoughts.

"Hey, Ames. Sorry I'm late," says Reizo.

Aimee's black hair shimmers in the mid-day sun. She splashes her hands in the pond and rubs them together.

"That's probably not sanitary," I say with a little too much confidence, keeping one hand behind my back.

She shakes her head and scowls. Clearly my lame attempt at coolness isn't working.

"I'm sorry for being late," I say.

Aimee grabs a dirty leather bag, but still doesn't respond. Her movements are jerky and she avoids making eye contact with me.

Shit. She's really pissed.

"What's that?" I ask, hoping it will snap her out of the funk.

She ignores me.

I remove the hand from behind my back and stick out the wildflowers I'd picked on the way over. "Ames. I'm really sorry for being late. Really. I—"

Her eyes relax and soften, but she still isn't smiling. "I'm really sorry," I whisper.

Aimee takes the flowers and sniffs. She hands me a muddy old leather bag. "I was worried. I thought you'd either blown me off." She huffs. "Or you know . . . your plan."

I stutter at first, and then say, "I'm sorry. I won't—I wouldn't. I, um, put the pills back where they belong."

"Good." She searches my eyes. "So you spoke to your mom?"

I hesitate. "No. Not yet. But I will."

Her eyes probe deeper. "You promise?"

I nod slowly. "I will, honest . . . I was late because my mom left me a note this morning. She gave me a list of maintenance things to do: a messed up toilet, burned out lights, stuff like that. The stupid apartment maintenance dude takes forever. And—"

Aimee smirks. "Toilet?" She rubs her shoulder.

I grin and try to get Ames to smile. "It wouldn't flush. Seriously, not pretty." I peer at the leather satchel. "What's in the old bag?"

"You're never going to believe—" Her face muscles abruptly tighten. She grabs her shoulder, then drops the bag and falls to her knees. Tears trickle down both of her cheeks.

Aimee doesn't have to tell me what's happening. I'd been through it before with her. "I'm taking you to your uncle's place. Now."

I grab the leather bag and throw it over one shoulder, cradle her in my arms, then take off jogging as fast as I can manage. "Breathe, Ames. Breathe."

When her breathing turns rapid, I know she's worse than the last time.

My jog turns to a sprint.

Chest Pain. Burning. Bouncing. Light fading. I can't focus.

I twist and turn, struggling, but I'm unable to move more than an inch. Hands are on me, pushing me down. My head pushed back. I try to speak, but gag. I start to throw up, but stop—blurry white blobs around me.

I can't focus.

I try to scream, but it comes out like a muffled drain releasing after being clogged. Something is stuck in my arm _._

I hear shouting.

I hear Mom. "Aimee dear, deep breaths. They're going to insert something into your heart to help you. Try and relax. Everything will be fine. It's a simple procedure."

Her voice calms me.

A woman I don't recognize tells me to count down from ten.

I mumble a countdown inside my head, but nothing comes out of my mouth. _Ten . . . nine..._

My body suddenly feels warm. _Eight..._

The warmth is replaced by calm. I'm floating. _Seven—_

The noises around me transform into a hum.

Whiteness fades to black.

# chapter thirty

After everything she's been through, her face still gives off a warm glow. I love that about her.

Kind. Beautiful. Caring.

I watch Aimee sleep peacefully from the chair next to her ugly white hospital bed.

"You're staring," says Honesti.

"They should tie you to the bed," says Bouncer. "You monster."

"Please stop," says Honesti. "Just stop it."

"Can I get you something?" whispers Mrs. De Lucca.

My mindless gaze focuses on Aimee's mother. "Sorry?"

Mrs. De Lucca raises her voice slightly and peers at her cell phone as if she's reading a secret message. "Can I get you something from the cafeteria?" There's a glint of respect in her eyes, sort of an _I-owe-you_ look. It's way better than the _no-way-in-hell-a-long-haired-kid-is-going-to-take-my-daughter-out_ look I would have received.

"No thanks, Mrs. De Lucca."

"I'll be back in a few," she says, heading out the hospital room door.

During the previous couple of days, I'd gotten to know Aimee's mom. She told my mom I'm a hero, which is an exaggeration. But I'm not going to argue. Both of our mom's agreed I could stay in Aimee's hospital room once the medical staff moved her out of ICU. Saving Aimee twice gives me perks.

"You gonna stare all day?" asks Bouncer, making a raspberry sound.

"Cut it out," says Honesti. "Not now."

"Yeah," I say. "Shut your trap."

"Huh?" Aimee asks in a guttural voice. "Reiz?"

I jump out of my chair and stand beside her bed.

"They moved me?" she asks.

I pick up a plastic cup of water and hand it to her. "Yeah, you're out of ICU. You're in a private room now. Pretty sweet. It's twice as big as my room in our apartment. The doctors say you're going to be fine."

She presses on the middle of her chest bone. "I thought I was going into surgery?"

"They were going to operate, but the doctors decided to wait. Your mom told me they inserted something called a stent."

"A stent?" She touches the bandage on her arm and wrinkles her nose.

"Rotor rooter," says Bouncer, laughing. He makes a sound like a low-pitched drill.

Jerk.

"Yeah, it's a wire-mesh thing that opens up a heart artery. I think they put it in through an artery in your arm, but you should ask your mom. How you feeling?"

Aimee forces a half smile. "Okay, I guess. A little groggy . . . actually, I feel better than I did." She moves her arm in a rotating motion. "No more pains in my shoulder." She yawns and attempts to fix her hair.

"Here, let me." I use my fingers like a comb to straighten out her part and smooth her bangs into place.

"So you're a hair dresser now?" asks Bouncer. "Who knew?"

"She is pretty," says Honesti. "I think combing her hair is so cute."

I stare at Aimee, tuning out the voices rambling between my ears. The more I concentrate, the more the two voices fade away.

Aimee lies back. She peers at the fresh wildflowers I'd put into a half-full glass of water next to the painted pond pictures I'd brought her. She forces a smile. "Sorry. Not what I'd imagined for a first date away from the pond."

"True. A movie at the Cinemax and some chick-a-doo B-B-Q would have been better," I say and grin, holding her hand. "The food here sucks. But there's this girl who, well, is pretty hot and I wanted to be the first person she saw when she woke up out of ICU."

"Gag me, I'm going to barf!" Bouncer yells.

"Knock it off!" Honesti shouts, adding to the noise in my head. She sounds louder than Bouncer.

I stare at Aimee's glistening eyes and dream of a sandy beach. I imagine that Bouncer's rants and Honesti's taunts are soothing waves along a sandy beach. Honesti's screams become a sea gull screeching overhead. I feel warm sunshine on my face and imagine Bouncer's nonsensical words to be laughter from little kids playing on the beach.

Aimee raises her voice and sits up. "Reizo, are you okay?"

"Sorry. What'd you say?"

She rolls her eyes and moves over, then pats the bed. "Sit with me."

I hesitate and struggle to keep the voices in the background. It's worse than trying to watch multiple television programs at the same time.

"You okay?" she asks.

I nod and rub my face. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired I guess."

She pats the bed again.

I glance out the hospital room door, where doctors and nurses run relay races. "On the bed?"

"No, on the floor, silly."

I climb onto the bed. "I guess you're feeling better."

"Way better," she says.

We sit side-by-side, awkwardly looking forward at nothing specific. The hospital room is about as basic as it comes. White walls, medical equipment, a television at the top of the far wall, and a small bathroom in the corner.

"I want you closer," she whispers.

I move closer and hold her hand without saying a word. A moment passes as our hands tighten and untighten, sending electric tingles through my veins. I never want to let go of her.

I finally break the silence. "Did you see your Grams again?"

The moment I finished asking the question, I wanted to take it back. _Stupid._ "Sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have—"

"No. It's okay." Aimee lets out a nervous chuckle. "Not this time. I think the next time I see her, I'll be staying for good."

_She means die?_ No way. I'm not about to let that happen to her. I clear my throat. "The doctor said it was a close call."

Aimee turns to me with a sparkle in her eye. "So Michelangelo superman, you carried me to my uncle's house again?"

I laugh half-heartedly. "Michelangelo superman? Nah, more like package delivery guy."

Aimee smiles, then a crease forms across her forehead. "It hurt, but not like my relay race disaster when I saw Grams." She squeezes my hand, then loosens it.

As I try to think of something cool to say, I can't help but wonder more about her grandmother. _Did Ames really talk to a dead person?_ It's none of my business, but I want to know.

"So what was it like? I mean, really like."

Her face twitches.

_Why is she suddenly nervous?_ "You said it was a place of total joy and love, right?"

She sighs. "It was that and more."

I notice her eyes well up with tears. _Oh hell. I've done it again._ "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's okay, really. It's just hard to put into words. I think I felt pure love. Like a warm fuzzy blanket was wrapped around me a million times..."

I grab a tissue from the small table next to the bed and dry her cheeks with it.

"I felt so much love."

"Why the tears?"

She softens her voice to a whisper. "You don't understand. It was surreal. It was like I remembered who I really was for the first time in my life. The real me. I guess I felt my soul. Does that sound ridiculous?"

I shake my head. "No, not at all." I try to make sense out of her words, but I don't really know what she means. She's more emotional than I'd ever seen her.

"What do you mean by the real you? That sounds—"

"Crazy?"

"No, of course not—"

"That's exactly why I've never told anyone," she says.

I get it. If I ever told a stranger I hear voices inside my head, the stranger would instantly tag me as crazy.

"Sorry I didn't—I mean, it sounds intense to me. I just don't totally understand—"

"What part? How I felt?"

"No, no. Not that part. I get it was an emotional experience for you. Something that really touched you." I take in a long breath, trying to pick the right words. "So assume everything you experienced was real. No question. It really happened."

"Yeah."

"If it's so good there, why do people have to suffer, feel pain, go hungry, hear freaking voices in our heads here? Do you see what I mean?"

She squeezes my hand.

I realize my voice is louder than it should be. I feel a little frustration, but not with Aimee. It's just that the logic makes no sense.

I whisper, "What's the point of feeling all the bad stuff here when something so awesome is..." I point upward. "There? You know, with your grandmother."

Aimee releases my hand and adjusts herself. She wipes her face and relaxes her shoulders. "Yeah, I know what you're saying. It's a good question, which is why I asked her."

I sit up straight. "Huh? You asked your grandmother?"

She nods yes. "It was the part I swore to myself I'd never talk about . . . to anyone. I never thought someone I cared about would actually ask me about it."

"Tell me," I say.

She takes her time, as if she's forming and editing words in her mind. "Grams said the only way to fully experience my present life is to be totally immersed in the physical me, you know in the body I'm in now. Think of my body as a game avatar with a bunch of attributes on sliders. None of it's fixed. My soul pairs with this body. Then I can adjust my attributes during a lifetime. If I work at it, I can become more giving, kinder, positive, and excited about experiencing the present. I'm not stuck in a static body for an entire lifetime. You know?"

I really don't know how to respond, so I stay silent.

"Dude, your face is twisted," whispers Bouncer. "It really isn't your best look."

Honesty shushes him.

Aimee looks out the open hospital room door, as if she is about to tell me a big secret. "Do you believe in reincarnation?"

I squint as if a brain freeze is coming on. "You mean living, dying, then coming back to life in another body as a baby? Like past lives in the movies?"

She nods her head yes. "Yeah."

"To be honest, I've never really thought about it," I say. "This life sucks enough as it is. I couldn't handle thinking about another life."

"But that's the point," she says. "You can change it. When I was with Grams, she told me reincarnation is real. It's why I wanted to come back to my current life." She pauses and takes a couple short breaths. "I know it sounds crazy, but I came back to finish this life. I wasn't ready for it to be over."

I scowl. "So, let me get this straight. After this life, we start a new life as a baby somewhere else in the world? We have things to do, but we're not allowed to remember what things or anything else we learned from the past lives we've lived? We have to relearn everything from scratch in every lifetime?"

I shake my head. "That's the worst guessing game ever." I realize I'm talking with my arms flailing, so I relax them. "Talk about a waste of time. Get born, grow up, and relearn the same crap over and over. The stovetop is hot, keep your fingers away from the car door, look both ways before you cross the street. What a bunch of bull."

Her jaw tightens. She touches my bicep and runs a finger down my forearm, making imaginary loops. "I know, I know. It sounds sort of inefficient."

"Sort of?" My shoulder muscles tighten. "It pisses me off. What kind of system is that? Throw us out into the world with things to do we can't remember? Make us forget we come from a place full of love? We're forced to live in a world of gray and relearn everything before having a few good years to do something important before we die? You know? Then the reincarnation part kicks in and we start over again. What a waste of time." I let out a loud huff. "What's the point?"

"I know. I know," she says with passion. "It sounds weird. But I think if we remembered everything about _there_ during our lifetime, we wouldn't try hard enough _here_. You know?"

"So suffering is what life is all about?"

I flash back to the pills I almost swallowed that first day I'd seen Aimee at the pond. My stomach sinks. If I'd actually gone through with my plan, well, I would never have met Aimee. The thought makes my stomach spin.

Aimee gazes at me and tilts her head. I'm pretty sure she sees me blushing.

Without warning, she leans in and kisses me as if we are a million miles from civilization.

I kiss her back.

"Oh God, my breath," she says, holding a cupped hand in front of her mouth. "It must be gross."

I laugh. "It's way better than my morning breath."

A glint of wow beams from her eyes. "I don't think the point is to suffer—not at all. I think we're all here to experience. To feel, because we can't feel the same way when we're there _,_ in that place with Grams where I felt intense love and joy, but nothing physically. You know, like touching or smelling or tasting."

She yawns again. "Grams told me in order to fully appreciate how amazing we are, each one of us must live not knowing in order to rediscover it." She squirms. "I don't really understand everything Grams said, but I felt like I understood it when I was with her. It was like waking up after knowing you dreamed, but you're unable to remember the dream. Weird, huh?"

I try to understand. I get some of what she's saying, but other parts have me seriously confused. "It just sounds messed up. It'd be like having a teacher teach us something, then wipe our memory clean and give us a pop quiz on it. Seems like a royal waste of energy."

She rubs my forearm. "Or maybe it's like me reliving the feeling I felt after running a marathon for the first time. Repeating the first times so we can experience them again. It felt amazing after I finished that first race. The run was painful and some of my toenails fell off, but I accomplished something big. Something I'd never thought I could do. Maybe living our life without remembering a past life is supposed to be like that. To experience life as if for the first time."

"Your toenails fell off?" I smirk.

She slaps me lightly on the forehead. I notice there are more tears on Aimee's face. I wipe them off.

Her eyes shine with intensity and she speaks faster. "Reizo, I really changed after that happened. I'm not afraid anymore. My fear of life went away. I don't care about material stuff. None of it matters." Aimee stops to take a breath and collect her thoughts. "I know in my heart there's an awesome place we all go to when it's our time—a magnificent place. But I don't feel in a rush to get there. I know I'll get there when it's my time. For now, I want to live without fear. Experience all of life. You know? Like being here with you. I want to work on being a better person. Helping people."

I smile.

Aimee continues. "Now I believe life is about experiencing what isn't perfect. Does that make sense?"

I jump at the opportunity to tease her and lighten the moment. I notice something else that's amazing - the voices had completely gone silent after Bouncer's last outburst, almost as if they're listening in. Then I hear Honesti sniffle and Bouncer sigh. It confirms my suspicions. They've been listening to Aimee too.

I shake my head, hiding a grin. "So I'm not perfect, huh? Thanks a lot. What a way to burst a guy's bubble."

She smiles. "No, I don't mean you, silly . . . Well, I guess . . . I do."

My grin turns to a smile.

The glow from her eyes tells me she's passionate about her experience. But honestly, I'm still not totally buying everything. It's hard to digest it all. I need some kind of proof to really believe everything.

I turn my head and stare at her. "So, after we die we get reincarnated?"

"That's the feeling I got when I was with Grams. But we have a choice. In my case, I could either come back as Aimee or stay _there_. If I stayed, I'd start over from scratch to come back _here_ again later in a different body." she sighs. "I don't really know how to explain it any better than that."

"I like your present body, personally," I tell her. "Would you mind sticking around for a while?"

Before she can reply, I lean in and kiss her again.

"You too, okay?" Aimee says quietly.

I whisper. "If reincarnation is how things work, why not let everyone remember some of the feelings you shared with your grandmother? You know? Give us a real hint or two once in a while without having to almost die like you did." I pause. "If you ask me, the reincarnation game is flawed. Sort of like a video game that starts over at level zero when you die, forcing you to play again, giving you a different avatar with a different set of attribute sliders with no skills."

Aimee gazes at me as if I'd broken some kind of spiritual law. She lowers her voice. "I guess it might be motivation not to give up on your current life. At least not before you've had a chance to experience everything you can and adjust your sliders."

Her comment hit home. I'm at a loss for words.

Aimee tickles my forearm. "Grams wouldn't lie to me." She sounds angelic.

I soften my voice, letting each word linger in the air before I add a new one. "Some of what you're saying makes sense." I take her hand and gently kiss it. "But I still think the reincarnation system needs an upgrade."

A smile grows across her face, as if she's enjoying our passionate discussion. "Oh really? And how do you propose upgrading it, Mr. 3D Tagger Boy?"

"Add in hints. And let me know for sure I can adjust my avatar's parameters. You know, like in a video game? Give me a little proof or an experience like you had with your grandmother."

"You mean die and come back? An NDE?"

"No, nothing so extreme or painful. Maybe just a vivid dream, a clear sign, or something more cool. A hologram."

She rolls her eyes. "How about meeting someone who totally changes your life when you least expect it? How's that for proof?"

I shake my head and don't have a comeback.

"Nice one girl-friend," whispers Honest.

"Bla-bla-bla," says Bouncer.

"Seriously, Reizo. You don't need hints or proof. You just need faith and to believe in yourself."

I know in my gut that she's right. After all, she did save my life that first day we met.

I feel so energized when I'm with him.

I notice two empty chairs are pushed back against the hospital wall. "Where's my mom and Hank?"

Reizo smiles. "Your mom went to the cafeteria and Hank left for work. Hank is something else. He about broke my hand when we shook the first time."

I grin. "He may have been making a point."

Reizo opens and closes his right hand. "Yeah, I still feel his point."

I look down at my arm. It hurts in one spot, but my shoulder doesn't ache like it did before. I gaze back at Reizo. Ever since he'd told me about the voices he hears, I've been curious about them.

"I told you all about my visit with Grams and my philosophy on death, now it's your turn. Tell me about your voices. You seem pretty normal to me."

He shakes his head. "Gee. Pretty normal, that's me. Thanks a lot."

"No, sorry. I didn't mean it like that. You told me they mess you up, but you don't seem messed up. That's all."

Reizo fidgets and pulls at the bedspread. "The truth is, the voices have been talking and shouting nonstop, although they were quiet when you talked about your Grams experience." He readjusts how he's sitting. "I'm trying hard to focus only on you. When I do, I manage to force the voices into the background. Usually that never works, but I guess I haven't had you to think about before now."

I get the feeling Reizo doesn't even know how cute he is when he's complimenting me.

He doesn't seem to mind my questions, so I continue. "How many voices are there?"

"Two."

"Why two and not three?"

"No clue."

"Have you ever tried to work a deal out with them?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Give them some rules. Tell them to follow your rules or you won't acknowledge them. You'll ignore them and they won't exist. Maybe tell them they can only speak when you ask a question. Or tell them they can speak if you ask them to speak. Maybe even tell them if they argue, you won't listen to them ever."

"I tried most of those things. They just ignore me, keep talking nonsense, and ranting. Sometimes they scream and yell at me too."

"Then ignore them back. Imagine they don't exist. When you hear them speak, don't listen. When they yell, tune them out like you're doing now. Pretend they don't exist. Imagine they're just a bad movie playing somewhere in the background."

He grabs his head and groans. "Easy for you to say."

I put my arm around his shoulder. "What? What's the matter?"

"Bouncer didn't like your idea. He's screaming bloody murder."

"Maybe he's screaming because I'm onto something? Wait . . . Bouncer? You named the voices?"

"Yeah, Bouncer and Honesti."

_Interesting_. The names are more like descriptions rather than names. "They sound like super heroes."

He makes a pained face. "Honesti likes the idea of super heroes, but Bouncer wants you to gag yourself and then kill me."

"I bet if you completely ignored them, they'd eventually give up trying to get your attention. Don't you think?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe— "

Mom bursts into the room. She sees Reizo on the bed, gestures for him to get up, and then smiles at me. "Hi, dear. How you feeling?"

Reizo gets her point. He fumbles moving off the bed, his face glowing red. He stands next to me, trying not to act embarrassed. _He's so cute._

"Hey, Mom. My arm is sore. But I'm feeling a lot better now."

"The doctors have scheduled your surgery for late next week. You'll stay here while they monitor your vitals and adjust your meds until the surgery. They insist you stay quiet until the surgery. No major strain. Got it?"

"Surgery? Reizo tells me they put in something called a stent?"

"That's right, honey. The stent helps with the blood flow, but in your case it's only a temporary solution. Your heart valve needs to be replaced."

I sigh and stare at the ceiling. Reizo pats my hand.

"It sounds bad, but it's not. The doctors said it's a routine heart valve replacement. They do lots of them every year."

"But why not just get it over with? Why are they waiting?"

"Before the surgeon will operate, she needs to run more tests to make sure the rest of your heart valves are working as they should. All of the doctors want to observe you for about a week."

"All the doctors?"

"Yes, you have three, plus the surgeon. They've taken a special interest in your case, dear."

"My case?" I suddenly remember the muddy leather bag. I stare at Reizo. "Where's that leather bag?"

Reizo glances at Mom.

"Reizo gave it to me, honey. Where'd you find it anyway?"

I feel my face get hot. "It was buried near the pond. Miss Aggie must have kicked up the dirt that hid it."

By the look of relief in Reizo's eyes, I can tell he's glad I didn't mention the shelter.

"Amazing," Mom says. "I've got my colleagues at the firm looking over the paperwork. It appears to be the will of Wesley Rush. It's really old, so we're not exactly sure how valid it is today. We also found a letter that accuses a man named Isak Sarov of murder and fraud. It turns out he's related to the Sarov's in charge of the Isak Sarov Corp. The will might prove the original founder, Isak Sarov, had illegally taken over Wesley Rush's land. It's a long shot, but there's a chance we might be able to get it back. It also mentions a man called General, but we have no idea who that could be."

Reizo tries to get a word in, but gives up when Mom doesn't even pause for a breath. She's in lawyer mode.

She continues. "Today, the Isak Sarov Corp. owns over fifty percent of the land in Franklin County. And your uncle is pretty excited about the gold coins. He says they might be worth over a million dollars, depending on their dates. Most are from the 1870's and 1880's—"

Mom's cell phone rings. She silences it and gives us both a distracted nod, glancing back down at her cell. She kisses me and then walks toward the door. "I need to get back to the office. They have some news about the Last Will and Testament. The partners are excited."

I know when Mom puts her mind to figuring something out, she always does. She can get intense, but she can be just as loving.

When Mom reaches the doorway, she stops and looks at Reizo. "Reizo, can you stay with Aimee?"

"Yes ma'am," Reizo says and straightens his shoulders. "I'll guard her with my life."

"Great." Mom waves.

I hate hospital smells. Noises all night long. Bright lights. Empty eyes. Sad faces. Crying. Being in this hospital with Aimee brings back painful childhood memories. Memories I thought I'd forgotten.

I was wrong.

After watching fireworks at a New Years Eve fireworks celebration when I was ten, a snoring truck driver hit our car head on outside of Chicago. Dad died instantly. Mom suffered bad injuries, but not life threatening ones. Two broken legs and other injuries meant physical therapy for me. But my physical pain was nothing compared to losing Dad.

Snap, life changer in an instant. That was when Honesti and Bouncer moved into my skull to drive me insane.

Aimee sits up and stretches. "Hey."

"Have a nice nap?" I ask.

She nods and watches me place a tray of painting supplies on the bed in front of her, as if she's going to eat a TV dinner. "I brought you something."

"Oh really?"

"Yep." I grab a blank paper, fill up a plastic cup with water, open up her watercolor set, and sit next to her on the bed.

"Looks like fun. Do the nurses approve?"

"They didn't stop me. Probably part of a don't ask, don't tell policy."

She chuckles. "You're such a bad boy, rule breaker."

"Nah, I only break the stupid ones."

Before long, we're holding hands, painting together, and listening to the cello music playing from Aimee's cell phone.

A knock on the door causes us to both look up.

It's Steve Baxter, the hospital's five donut-per-day security guard. He abruptly walks into the room. At six-foot four, two hundred and eighty pounds-plus, he looks intimidating. But he's the nicest guy I know at the hospital.

"Can I get you two anything?" Steve asks. His high-pitched voice sounds like a soprano choir singer.

"We're good," I say. "Thanks, Steve."

"Sure," Steve says. "If you do, just tell your nurse to call me. Oh, and I told her you have permission to paint in bed." He winks and leaves as abruptly as he'd arrived.

"You know him?" asks Aimee.

"Yeah, he's cool. I met him in the cafeteria when you were still in the ICU. He takes his job seriously. The dude cares about everyone walking into his hospital, unless they cross him. I guess we sort of bonded."

Aimee rubs my hand. "That's sweet."

"The big guy has political plans. He wants to be Mayor someday, or maybe even Governor in ten years."

"Wow." Aimee smiles. "I've been meaning to ask you what you were doing the night before your big toilet repair." She brushes the painting with orange. "Did it have something to do with chickens?"

I pick up a pencil and add some shading. "How'd you guess?" I stare blankly past the picture. "B-B-Q too. Freshened up the movie theatre maybe?"

Random thoughts suddenly play pinball with the neurons in my brain: Thomas was in love with Anna. How much Aimee resembles Anna.

"I saw your tag on the news." She snorts and peers at me as if she's solving a math problem. "You seem distracted today. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing really. It's just crazy that my great-great grandpa, Thomas, was in love with your great-great grandma, Anna. And it's even crazier that his father's land might have been stolen. It could end up being ours, you know."

"Yeah, we'll see. Mom still isn't sure she can do anything about it." Aimee shakes her head. "I doubt we'll be very popular with the Isak Sarov Corp. when they find out about Wesley's will—"

A nurse walks into the room and freshens up the pillows.

Aimee softens her voice and continues. "Which hospital did Wesley die in? Do you know?"

The nurse glances at Aimee as she fluffs a pillow.

I look at the nurse and clear my throat, then force a sarcastic grin until the nurse turns away. "My mom told me it was a place named County Hospital. It was somewhere in Franklinville. Must have gotten bulldozed a million years ago."

The nurse suddenly acts as if she's part of our conversation. "County Hospital? Oh child," she says, still cleaning Aimee's room. "Heard lots of stories about that place. Back in the 1890's it was named County, home of the lunatics. Now the place goes by the name Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital."

My stomach hits the floor. It can't be. The place I hate the most in the world? The place where I'd been locked up? The place where Dr. Stewart reigns as mad doctor in charge?

I never want to see that hospital again. Ever. I'll never go back. "I hate that place," I mutter under my breath.

The nurse continues. "Isak Sarov the first built it."

"Sarov?" Aimee asks.

"Built the asylum with his own money. It was one of the very first buildings in the township. Lots of conspiracy stories about that 'ole place. Folks say Sarov built it just to put people in it, anyone that got in his way. Built his fortune up by making people disappear."

The nurse completes her tasks and heads for the door. She stops and turns back to face us. "Today the Isak Sarov Corporation controls it all. The first Sarov was a powerful man, and none too kind either. Now the family runs the corporation. I believe his youngest grandson is 'bout your age. Mean too. Full of spit and vinegar from what I hear, mostly spit I suppose."

As the nurse leaves, she says, "If ya'll need anything, push the button."

I suddenly realize Theodore High's drug dealer, Zeke Sarov, is related to the first Isak Sarov. Today Zeke's father runs the Isak Sarov Corporation. Is he using his daddy's influence as protection?

Then it hits me where the first Isak Sarov could have got all his land a hundred plus years ago.

Grandpa Wesley.

I focus on painting with watercolor while Reizo adds 3D effects in pencil. I've never known anyone so creative.

The nurses think we're cute together. Occasionally we sneak a kiss, but Reizo has been _almost_ the perfect gentleman. The last few days have been better than my best dream. Painting together on my hospital bed. Bringing blank paper to life.

Reizo's voices have stressed him out a few times, but nothing over the top. He tells me when they get to him. But I can tell by the look on his face—sort of a cross between a brain freeze and a hard math problem.

To deal with it, he takes a break and walks through an old abandoned parking lot behind the hospital to get snacks at the minimart three blocks away. Reizo says he can yell back at the voices when he's in the parking lot. It doesn't make them stop, but he feels better just the same.

I wish I knew how to help him. I told Mom he needs to find a better doctor. She offered to help. I'm guessing she feels like she owes Reizo, now that he's saved me twice. With any luck, she'll help find him a doctor that can prescribe meds that won't turn him into a creative zombie.

I dip my brush into pink and add petals to a rose while Reizo works on the stem in pencil. "My mom said she has news about the Last Will and Testament. She'll stop by later to give us an update."

"News? As in we own all of Franklinville?" Reizo shakes his head and chuckles. "Like that would ever happen."

"Hey. You never know. Mom found some legal angle. She says they've confirmed the Isak Sarov Corporation illegally acquired the land from your Grandpa Wesley back in 1895. I guess Isak Sarov forged the paperwork and took it over after your Grandpa Wesley died. I told you my mom's an awesome lawyer."

"It runs in the family. Her daughter is pretty amazing too."

Reizo's breath smells of mint when he leans in and kisses me, sending chills racing across my shoulders. When his lips softly melt into mine, every nerve in my body comes alive. My weightless stomach floats out of my body. _God I love his lips._

Reizo brushes my bangs with his fingertips.

It takes a second before I can speak. "What was that for?"

"I'm just glad you're okay."

"Me too." After a moment, I say, "We really should tell our moms about the storm shelter, you know."

"We will," Reizo says. "Just give me a little time to go through it once more. Let's wait until after your surgery, okay?"

Reizo suddenly does a double take towards the doorway. His face goes blank.

"Well hello, you two lovebirds." Zeke Sarov saunters into the room, pushing black-framed glasses further up his nose. Two large football player-sized guys stroll in behind him. It takes a second, but I recognize both of them from school: football captain Jason and Josh the hulk.

I'm speechless. Reizo breaks the silence in an impressively deep and assertive tone. "What do you want?"

Zeke starts to laugh. He picks up Reizo's plastic cup of water and sniffs it, then pours it on the bed near our feet.

"What in the hell?" Reizo jumps to his feet.

I reach for the nurse call button.

"Don't move!" Zeke shouts. He lowers his voice. "I wouldn't press it if I were you."

Josh pushes Reizo back on the bed.

Zeke sneers at me. "Take your hand off the button. I'm not going to say it again."

The disgusting hulk crosses his beefy arms. Captain Jason kicks the bed like he might actually damage the solid metal bed frame.

"Leave!" I scream.

Zeke's face turns stone cold. "Keep your mouth shut. You hear me?"

"Or what?" Reizo asks, reaching again for the nurse call button in my hand. He's way bigger than Zeke, but small compared to Josh.

"Or you'll be sent to Willowgate in an hour. Reizo Rush, psycho kid, a danger to the hospital staff, a danger to himself. I can make it happen..." he says coldly as he snaps his fingers "just like that."

When I notice he's wearing some kind of weird gold bracelet with glowing jewels, he covers it with his sleeve.

Reizo steps back.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"It's simple," Zeke says, looking at me as if his eyes have become laser sights. "Get that bitch mother of yours to back the hell off. Tell her the will is a total fake. So is the letter. You both tell her it was a joke. Just got out of hand, that's all."

"And why would we lie?" Reizo says. "To help you? Not a chance."

"Oh, let me count the ways. One: you, Rush, go to Willowgate and a nasty accident happens; two: Aimee, your uncle loses his ranch and gets run out of the state forever; three: your mom's boyfriend Hank loses all his customers, maybe even gets flattened when he's on the road hooking up a car to his lame tow truck; and last, but not least: Aimee's mom gets disbarred in disgrace and has to clean toilets with Rush's mom. How do those _ways_ sound? Of course, that's just off the top of my head. I'm sure I could think of other, more interesting ways, to destroy your lives."

The blood has drained from Reizo's face.

"Your grandfather was a murderer." I grab my trembling right hand, trying to calm myself.

"Go to hell," Reizo says to Zeke before I can.

Zeke throws the empty plastic cup across the room. "Have it your way, love birds." He curls his fingers and thumb into a gun with his right hand and makes a motion to shoot me, then points his hand at Reizo, pretending to shoot him next. "You blew your chance."

He lowers his voice into a growl as he stomps out the door. "People who get in our way, sort of just, um, disappear one way or another. It's tradition." He laughs. "You'll see."

Speechless and about to puke, I wipe sweat beads from Aimee's forehead.

Bouncer is going nuts. "Go after him, dirt ball. Don't take that from him."

"The nerve," says Honesti.

"Jerkwad," says Bouncer.

"Did that just happen?" asks Aimee with a shaky voice.

I regain my composure and catch my breath. "You okay?"

She nods, holding her chest.

"Girlfriend's in pain," says Honesti.

I embrace her. "Try to relax."

"Gross. I'm gonna barf," says Bouncer. "You're going to mess up girlfriend's hair."

A moment passes before I get off the bed.

Bouncer continues to rant and argues with Honesti _._

I focus as hard as I can, pushing their noise into a corner of my mind until the voices are muffles.

"My heart is still racing," says Aimee, working to catch her breath. "What do we do?"

I pick up the plastic cup. "We should tell your mom. She'll know what to do."

Two shadows suddenly fill the doorway.

"Run!" shouts Bouncer. "Bolt!"

I don't move as two uniformed cops enter Aimee's room, followed by a nurse and Steve Baxter.

"What's going on?" asks Aimee.

A uniformed cop with short black hair, grayed at the temples, holds a pad of paper in his hand. He glares at me. "Young man, are you Reizo Rush?"

I frown at the cop, and then glance at a second clean-shaven cop with a bony jaw and steely eyes. He's taller, thinner, and in way better shape than the older cop.

The second cop sips a tall coffee with a radio in his opposite hand. They're both cool and confident, as if arresting teenagers was boring compared to running down actual murderers.

"Answer him, son," the older cop says. "Are you Reizo Rush?"

"What do you want?" My voice squeaks like a rusty door hinge.

"Impressive," Bouncer says. "That ought to scare them."

"I'm afraid we have a warrant for your arrest," the boney-jaw cop says, sipping his coffee. "An eye witness reported that you are responsible for the recent tagging across the city. Last one was the movie theatre. Our eyewitness says he knows you."

_Oh man._ "Who?" My stomach sinks. "Was it Zeke Sarov?"

The cops glance at each other, but don't respond. That tells me all I need to know. My heart takes off in a sprint before I have a chance to move.

I'm not going with them. No way in hell.

"So you're the tagger, huh?" asks the nurse. "Impressive artwork, young man. The chickens on the old movie theatre are amazing. Your work really adds color to that old building. You're very talented—"

The older cop clears his throat.

"You don't need to say a word until you get a lawyer," says Steve Baxter.

"Bolt." says Bouncer.

Bouncer makes my eyes water, but I manage to ignore him as I think about what the hell I'm going to do. There aren't many choices.

The steel-eyed cop reaches behind his back. From experience, I know he's reaching for handcuffs. No doubt a Taser will be next.

"Reizo?" whispers Aimee, trying to get my attention.

Damned that Zeke, he's not joking. _I'm screwed._ I have a terrible feeling. If I go with them, I'll end up back at Willowgate. _Not today, ass wipes._

I peer at Aimee's strained face and know what I have to do. I nod my head toward the pond painting we'd been working on, trying to give her a hint about my plan.

Without a second thought, I make my move, shoving the cop's coffee out of his hands and bolting out the door. At first it feels like I'm watching myself move in slow motion from outside of my body. I calculate every step in real-time and plan every move.

The bony-jawed cop will be the faster one. After I get out of the hospital, I'll need to use all my shortcuts to outwit and out distance that cop. But before I worry about all of that, I need to get out of the hospital.

"Ah shit!" the cop yells.

I glance back over my shoulder and watch the two surprised cops stumble out of the doorway.

Steve mouths "Run!"

Thanks dude.

Both cops stumble over Steve.

"Get out of the way!"

I bolt to the fire exit and down the stairs.

A few seconds later, I burst into the lobby and slide behind the security desk and duck when I see two other cops pull up in front of the lobby in a patrol car with lights shining and sirens blaring. They have arrived way quicker than they should have. _Zeke!_

I wait for what feels like forever as they run past the desk and into the stairwell without noticing me. For a moment, I'm tempted to borrow the patrol car, but I don't. I'd be way too easy to find if I stole it. Instead, I run out the back door of the hospital, sprinting past dumpsters and down side streets.

The crappy midday sun offers little cover, so I use my short cuts and the back alleys to give myself an advantage. If I can make it to the park, I can use the drainpipe as my getaway.

Sirens blare nearby.

When I finally reach the fifty-year old homes with weathered, rickety fences, I catapult myself over the first fence, collecting an arm full of splinters. I grunt when I land in a tuck-and-roll on hard brown grass.

"Get up wimp!" shouts Bouncer. "You best do better than that, boy!"

I get up and run faster, jumping over the next fence, then the next.

"Hurry, Reizo, hurry!" yells Honesti with panic in her voice. "Faster!"

"I'm trying," I mutter, sucking air.

More sirens. Some are getting closer.

"Through the park!" yells Honesti. She let out a high-pitched scream.

"You'll never make it!" shouts Bouncer. "Loser, loser, loser! Little baby is crawlin. He'll never be able to handle activation."

"Ignore the jerk, Reiz!" shouts Honesti. "Keep on going!"

I keep running, covered in sweat, my chest rising and falling. I'm way too out of breath to yell back at them.

Quick calculation. Fifteen seconds to reach the storm drain or I'm screwed. I jump another fence, avoid the same barking dog I always do, and continue over a brick wall to the Main Street storm drain. Through the metal gate and into darkness, water splashes with each step I take.

Finally, I slow down to a jog and let my right hand touch the side of the storm drain to guide me forward in the darkness. _Made it_.

"Way to go, Reiz!" shouts Honesti. She lets out a series of hoots.

"Lucky. That's all. You was lucky!" shouts Bouncer, who then makes a loud raspberry sound.

"I knew you could do it," says Honesti. "I'm glad you listened."

Right, as if.

A small bag of clothes for emergencies is still duct-taped to the drain's ceiling where I'd hid it previously. I take off my shirt and replace it with a t-shirt from the bag, then pull a light sweat jacket over the t-shirt. I change into sweat pants and push all my hair up under a ball cap.

I've instantly changed my look from cool tagger dude into jogger jock dude. The cops won't be hunting for a cross-country runner.

I wait for about thirty-minutes before exiting the storm drain, and then check to make sure it's clear.

All clear.

A minute later, I'm two blocks away, pretending I'm a jogger.

"Where you headed to?" asks Honesti.

"Probably highway to hell, I figure," says Bouncer, acting bored as usual.

"Hey Reizo, where you going?" asks Honesti, her voice going higher.

I ignore them and continue jogging.

Sirens blare a few miles away in the opposite direction. To be safe, I take side streets until I reach the highway out of town. There's no way I can go home. That'll be the first place the cops will check.

No one knows about the storm shelter, except for Aimee. Staying inside it will buy me time until I can figure out what to do next.

I run as fast as I can to Murdock's ranch.

# chapter thirty-one

I can't stop trembling. Tears running. Nose running. Reizo running.

I know why he ran. He knew they'd send him to Willowgate. He said he'd never go back to that place.

Zeke wasn't bluffing.

We're in big trouble.

Mom runs into my hospital room and over to my bed. "Aimee? Are you okay?"

A dry knot in my throat prevents me from speaking at first. I nod and hear myself sob.

Mom hugs me tight. "The nurse called." She gently wipes my face. Now Mom is crying too. "I was so worried. So worried." She clears her throat and searches my eyes. "Reizo ran from the police? Why in the world?"

I force his name out. "Zeke Sarov. He's behind it."

"The boy from your school? Isak Sarov's son?" She raises her voice as if she's just found a missing piece to a five-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. "The son of the man who runs the Isak Sarov Corp.?"

I force myself to speak. "He was here, Mom. He threatened us. He wanted us to say Wesley's will and letter are forgeries. That we made up the entire story as a joke. Reizo told him to go to hell."

"Good for Reizo," Mom mutters.

"Zeke left, but ten minutes later a nurse, the hospital security guard, and the police came into my room to arrest Reizo. Zeke said he'd hurt both of our families if we didn't do what he said. You have to stop him. Call Hank—"

Mom composes herself, just like I'd seen her do on the mornings before she goes to court to argue a case. "Take a breath, honey. The doctors want you to stay calm. I promise you, I'll get to the bottom of this."

"But what are we going to do? Zeke and his father have power in Franklinville."

"I know. But listen. I went to school with a Justice Department attorney, a federal guy with high-level connections in Washington, D.C. He has good friends at the FBI and DEA. I'll call him. In the meantime, I need to file a restraining order against Zeke for threatening you."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Just promise me you'll stay calm. You're surgery isn't for a few more days. The doctors need you to stay in bed."

I nod my head, but I've already started making a plan.

Mom continues. "I'll let hospital security know. They'll keep an eye on you while I'm at the office or in court. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be fine."

I will be, once I know Reizo made it to the pond.

# chapter thirty-two

After moving the bush hiding the shelter's entrance, I climb down its ladder.

A battery-powered lantern is on the floor. Aimee must have borrowed it from her uncle. Once I have the light on and the hatch closed, I feel safe in the smelly shelter.

My head spins and I'm shaking as I catch my breath. _Zeke._ I barely know the bastard. He's determined to put me away. One moment I'm enjoying Aimee's company, the next I'm running from cops. _What the hell is going on?_

Maybe I'll wait a day and let things cool down, then get word to Mom. I need time to chill. But at the moment, I can't sit. I pace around the small space, peering at the shelves full of old books and wondering what the hell I'm going to do.

It's hard to believe Aimee found a shelter that'd been buried for a hundred-and-fifty years. It's like the entire thing was transported directly from the 1800's. I search around the place to take my mind off the cop's massive search back in Franklinville, peering past stacks of books and searching the open safe. Empty. She'd cleaned it out already.

I remember the coins Aimee had found earlier and wonder if more gold coins could be stashed somewhere else inside the shelter. I'd need money to get out of Franklinville before Zeke's paid-off cops find me. Leaving the city seems to be my only option.

Half-open desk drawers appear to have been searched. Small chains, rusty nails, paper pieces, old coins, fountain pens, a variety of small books, a bible, and worthless odds and ends had been spread over the top of the desk. Aimee had obviously searched the drawers.

I see the drawer she told me about with the false back, where she'd found the combination note. Did Aimee check the other drawers for secret compartments?

It doesn't take me long to find another drawer with a false back. I push through the thin piece of wood and find gold coins. _Awesome_. Money is what I need.

What other treasures might be hiding?

I pull the lever on the Symphonion music box and listen to it play.

_Aimee_. It feels like a dream when I'm with her. It's like we're connected. She makes me feel amazing. Then I remember that I'm hiding and my warm feeling runs cold. All because of Wesley's Last Will and Testament.

After a while, searching the shelter loses its appeal. I sit down on the cot and lie back. _Ames_.

I make two fists, searching for a glimmer of hope that never comes.

I've decided.

I'm not running away.

# chapter thirty-three

A policeman asks me an hour of nonstop questions before Mom tells the older policeman I need a break. He shrugs off my suspicions about Zeke as if he could care less and leaves my room.

"I'm staying the night," Mom insists, pushing the nurse call button.

There's no sense arguing with her. She's worried.

The duty nurse recruits security guard Steve, who brings in and sets up a portable bed.

At 10 p.m. the nurse dims my lights. Mom falls asleep in ten minutes.

I toss and turn until Nurse O'Connor walks in, carrying her plastic tray of needles and blood vials. I call her VampiraOC. She visits my room every morning at 3 a.m. for artery blood—her midnight snack. She says artery blood is sweeter than blood from veins. _Whatever._

It's not fair. One minute I'm enjoying Reizo, the next Zeke ruins everything. Is he protecting his father?

VampiraOC digs past the layer of my wrist veins until she hits an artery. I flinch and clench my jaw until my face hurts. She says sorry every night and pats me on the arm.

Thoughts of Reizo spin in my head as VampiraOC probes deeper.

_Did Reizo make it to the shelter?_ I try not to make any noise to avoid waking up Mom, but a groan escapes as blood floods the vial.

Mom starts to sit up, but I motion for her to turn over. Luckily, she doesn't hesitate. She goes back to sleep.

After ten minutes, my wrist is throbbing, VampiraOC is gone, and Mom is snoring again. The hospital is quiet, except for VampiraOC feasting in a room down the hallway.

It's time.

I quickly retrieve the keys from Mom's purse, put pillows under my bed covers, grab my clothes and shoes, and scribble out a note just in case Mom wakes up and finds me gone: " _I went to check on Uncle_."

It's a white lie. Okay, it's a total lie. But I have to make sure Reizo made it. I leave the note on the bed stand so she'll see it if she discovers I'm not in bed.

I tiptoe into the dimly lit hospital hallway, disappearing into the room next door, where an elderly man snores like a freight train. I lock myself into his bathroom and change into my clothes.

Moments later, I turn off the bathroom light and open the door.

"Hello?" the old man in the hospital bed croaks. He speaks as if he's been chewing tobacco in his sleep. "What—? Who are you?" He fumbles for his glasses.

My heart lurches. I hesitate, but snap out of it. "Sorry to wake you, sir. I'm just checking to make sure you have enough towels for tomorrow."

"Ah, oh," he replies, clearly confused. "I could use another towel, I suppose."

"I'll get you one, sir." I wave and dart into the empty hallway where I stop, stand against the wall, and scan for Vampira OC.

Coast is clear.

I take in a deep breath and make my way to the stairway exit, then on down the stairs. My heart sputters like a car that's running out of gas. I breathe deep and focus, as if I'm getting set to run a relay race. _Dig._

When I enter the lobby, a young man in a security guard uniform is helping a family move a woman from a car into the emergency room. She's crying and obviously in pain. I'm sad for her, but happy for me; the ruckus creates the distraction I need.

I bolt out a side entrance into the parking lot, realizing I have no freaking idea where Mom has parked _._ I hadn't thought about this part. I press the lock button on the clicker over and over as I jog around the parking lot.

I need to find the car before the security guard gets back to his desk and checks the parking lot cameras. He'll surely see me.

After another couple of minutes, a horn finally begins to honk.

Mom's car lights blink.

Found it.

Scratches. Three loud thumps. Scraping. Knocking. Weird sounds come from the shelter's entry hatch.

What the hell?

I sit up wide-awake and switch on the lantern. My wristwatch shows _3:45 a.m._ Who could it be?

Another thump. The hatch jiggles. My heart is racing. Two quick knocks and the hatch moves. What if someone else knows about this place? _Damn it._ There's no escape. I'm so screwed.

Maybe I can hide. I switch off the light. The hatch opens a few inches, then stops.

"Reizo?" asks a small voice through the opening.

"What the—Ames?"

"Yeah, Reiz, it's me," she whispers.

I switch back on the lantern, haul ass up the ladder, and push open the hatch.

Aimee's smile fills me with excitement. "Oh man. You freaked me out."

She steps onto the ladder and I help her down into the shelter.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "Is everything okay?"

She nods.

When we're both off the ladder, Aimee throws her arms around me and we kiss until the world fades away.

I lean back and take in a breath, searching her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Tears cover her cheeks. "I was so worried."

I try to dry her face with my hands. "Hey, it's okay. I'm fine. See . . . but what are you thinking? You're supposed to be in bed."

"I had to make sure you made it. I couldn't wait in a hospital bed to find out. Besides, I brought you supplies in a couple bags up top. I thought you'd need some food and water. I borrowed it from Uncle's kitchen. He doesn't hear a thing once his hearing aid is turned off for the night."

The girl is fearless.

"Here," I say and point to the cot. "Sit down. Catch your breath."

"I wish I could, but I can't. There's no time. I have to get back before Mom wakes up. I borrowed her car."

"What? You didn't tell me you drive."

"Of course, don't you?" She pushes my shoulder. "Driver's Ed was a requirement for all of us."

I shrug. "True. But I never took the test."

"How come?" Aimee asks.

"They don't allow mascot attacking teenagers to drive."

Aimee chuckles and shakes her head. "I better go. No way do I want to explain the note I left for my mom. You're safe and that's all I wanted to know."

I thought about arguing with her, but I get it and she needs to be in a hospital bed. "Let me walk you back to the car. It's still dark outside."

She doesn't object.

As soon as we walk past the oak trees, the voices start in on me.

" _What the hell are you doing brother man?_ " asks Bouncer.

" _You better get out of town,"_ says Honesti. " _Aimee shouldn't be out of the hospital_."

"I know. But she's doing better—"

"Huh?" Aimee asks, chewing on her bottom lip.

_Oh man_. I hesitate.

"The voices?"

"Yeah, sorry." I concentrate on her lips, and then shift my gaze to her eyes.

"What's your next move?" she asks, as if I'm playing chess.

"I'm still working out a plan." I shake out both hands. "Can you call my mom and tell her I'm okay? Tell her I called you from a payphone and you don't have any idea where I am."

"Okay."

I tell Aimee my home phone number again as we walk to the car. Just being near her fills me with excitement. It's as if nothing can pull us apart.

"You better go," I whisper, holding her close.

"I'll touch base in a day or two. Promise you won't leave the hospital again until after your surgery?"

"I promise." She climbs into her mother's car. "I'm worried. The rumors about Zeke and drugs must be true. Do you think Zeke would really—?"

"I'm pretty sure he'll do anything he needs to do. Bummer for him, though. He's made a big mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"He's pissed off a crazy person."

With no traffic on the road, it doesn't take long to get back to the hospital. I ease into the empty parking space where Mom had originally parked.

After a quick walk from the car, I watch the windows from outside for a minute to make sure the security guard is done making his rounds. Once I know the coast is clear, I fast walk through the lobby and on up the stairs.

When I reach my floor, I peer into the dimly lit hallway. The duty nurse is nowhere in sight. And Vampira OC has apparently moved on to another floor. That means I still have time before a shift change.

I tiptoe back into the old guy's room and retrieve my so-not-sexy-backless-hospital-sleepers. Then I continue to my room.

It's 4:50 a.m. and Mom is snoring. I pulled it off. _Yay me!_

Soon, I have my PJs back on and return my street clothes into the dresser drawers. Just as I crawl into bed, Mom rubs at her face and sits up.

"Honey? Are you okay?"

Oh no, I forgot the note. I glance over to where I left it. Luckily, it's still on the table next to her.

"Honey?" she repeats.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I just needed to use the bathroom. Go back to sleep, okay?"

She rubs her face and heads for the bathroom. "Good idea."

When she closes the door, I get out of bed and palm my note. Before I return to bed, the duty nurse scurries into my room.

"Now young Miss De Lucca," she says. "You know you're supposed to be in bed."

"Just getting some water," I reply.

"Ah huh," says the nurse, fluffing my pillow.

I hold the note behind my back and climb back into bed.

Mom saunters out of the bathroom, yawning and stretching her arms.

"My, my. Y'all are up early this morning," the nurse says. "Guess I don't blame ya. We're not exactly a five-star resort 'round here."

I don't respond. Neither does Mom as she stretches and rubs at her neck.

It doesn't take long before the nurse has taken my vitals. She declares me to be in reasonably good shape, all things considered. She does point out that my pulse rate is higher than it should be at such an early morning hour. But she doubts it's a problem.

"Do you mind if I run to the office for a few hours this morning, dear? Hank will be here to sit with you before noon."

"Sure Mom, no problem. I'm feeling pretty good."

In fact, I'm great. I can still feel him. My face warms when I think about the softness of Reizo's lips.

"Good then. I need to proofread the legal brief we're submitting to the federal court today. Then we'll serve the Isak Sarov Corp. with the papers. No one messes with my little girl, especially some teenage bully son of Isak Sarov. I don't care if his father is the richest man in Arkansas."

"Just be careful, Mom. Zeke means business. He's dangerous. I mean it. And remember, the police are probably on his payroll, okay?"

"Sure, sure," she says, freshening up her face. She gives me a kiss. "Everything will be fine, Aimee dear. It'll all be fine."

5:30 a.m. When Mom walks out of my room, I rip my note into confetti and toss it in the small metal trashcan near the door.

I'll wait until 7 a.m. before calling Mrs. Rush to tell her about Reizo.

I lie back on the hospital bed.

How long does Reizo have before the police catch him?

# chapter thirty-four

Book shelves. Old desk. A cot. The storm shelter glows in the bright light of the LED lantern.

It's easy to think without voices haunting me.

So many things have happened since that first day I met Aimee.

We discovered the storm shelter built by a long-dead relative. Found artifacts inside the shelter. Found a diary. Wesley's Last Will and Testament document. Gold coins. Silver coins. Books. There's probably more treasures to be discovered.

Wesley's Last Will and Testament could cause a huge change in land ownership in Franklinville.

I stare upward at the old railroad ties with steel rails with so many questions.

How do Zeke's drugs and land ownership relate?

Everyone at school knows Zeke is a drug dealer, but what if he supplies drugs beyond Franklinville?

What do drugs have to do with Grandpa Wesley's Last Will and Testament?

If the court finds the will to be valid, could it threaten Zeke's ability to distribute drugs?

My head hurts.

I need answers.

# chapter thirty-five

I stare at the light panels on the ceiling covering florescent tubes. I don't feel like reading. I don't want to watch television. I don't feel like doing anything except thinking about Reizo and his dreamy hazel eyes.

Butterfly chills tickle me from the inside. It's only been a handful of hours since I've seen Reizo, but I miss him. I long for his energy. The way he makes me feel.

Questions spin around in my head. _How can I feel so connected to him in such a short period of time? How could I fall for the 3D tagger guy who flattens mascots and hears voices?_

We're like two magnets pulling on each other. He doesn't crush me, he gets me, and I'm excited when he's near. Suddenly, I feel a surge of anger that breaks me out of my romantic trance. A crushing energy, as if the air around me has instantly become heavy and weighs a million pounds.

Zeke walks into my room with Josh the hulk. "This is way too easy."

He stretches his neck above his buttoned-up shirt and pushes back his black-framed glasses. "Good morning, Aimee De Lucca. How was your hospital breakfast this morning?"

I scramble to sit up and search the doorway for help, but the hallway appears deserted. I reach for the nurse button.

"Don't do it," says Zeke. "We've been through that already. I wouldn't press it if I were you."

He lifts up his baggy shirt, revealing a small handgun tucked discreetly in his belt.

"One of my boys is following your mother, another following her boyfriend, and one is watching Rush's mom. The only problem now is finding lover boy."

I'm freaking out. His intense darkness crushes me and his piercing eyes burn. I try to hide my trembling hands until my entire body begins to shiver.

I search again for an escape route, but Josh is blocking the door. I'm trapped.

For a second I pray Zeke is bluffing, but I recall how the police showed up to arrest Reizo not long after Zeke's last visit. Somehow, law enforcement is working with Zeke or for him. Probably bribed. I'm in trouble.

"Checkmate," he says. "Ex-track star. Girl with the broken heart."

"Yeah, ex-track star," says Josh, acting like a six-foot-tall parrot with a large crooked nose for a beak.

"What do you want?" I squeak.

"Simple. You're coming with us. And you're going to tell me where your chicken shit boyfriend is hiding."

I push myself beyond the weight of his darkness. My fear expands into anger. I search around for anything that could be useful as a weapon. All I see is a plastic knife.

"What?" Zeke pushes at his glasses and laughs in a gurgling growl. Josh laughs with him. "You gonna kill me with a piece of plastic?"

I need to do something.

Josh grins, as if daring me to make a move. He's easily the size of a mature bull. I wouldn't stand a chance against him, even if I were in track shape.

"I have no idea where he is," I manage to say. "I don't really even know him."

"Right. Nice try. You sure you want to play that hand? A couple calls. That's all it'll take me."

"Whatever."

"Get changed in the bathroom. Don't lock it, unless you want me to start making phone calls." He takes my cell phone and crushes it into the floor with his foot, then throws me my street clothes.

I shuffle into the bathroom and shut the door. _What am I going to do?_ There's not a window to crawl out of or a nurse call button. I'm so screwed. Mom is spending the day in her office and I don't expect Hank for another couple hours.

Zeke knocks on the bathroom door. "Hurry the hell up. You have thirty seconds. You hear me?"

_Oh God._ I have no choice. "Give me a sec."

I do what he says and change into my jeans and blouse.

When we leave my room, the hallway is empty. A distracted nurse walks out of a patient's room, but doesn't notice me. Then a male nurse glances at me as he walks by, but quickly looks away when Zeke clears his throat.

Great. Zeke paid off the nurses too.

We continue on to the elevator and ride it down.

Even the security guard that Reizo knows has been called away. He's missing from his security desk at the hospital entrance. Anyone that could stop Zeke has suddenly taken a mid-morning break, been called away from their post, or is walking with eyes lowered.

When we step outside, Josh starts up a black Dodge Challenger, which is parked at the curb in front of the lobby.

Zeke opens a back door. "Get in."

The entire situation is surreal. My heart is ready to explode, and my head tells me to turn and run. But I do what he says. As I reluctantly climb into the car, Zeke shoves a wet rag reeking of chemicals hard against my nose and mouth. I try to scream, but muffle instead.

I collapse onto the seat and everything goes dark.

# chapter thirty-six

After hours of browsing through hundred-year-old books, Thomas's diary, and gazing at old black and white photos, I'm bored as hell.

Screw Zeke Sarov.

I'm done playing hide-and-seek. Steve at the hospital can probably sneak me in to see Aimee. But Zeke's paid-off cops might be staking out the place. They might be watching my apartment too. There's only one person besides Mom that might be able to help. _JT._

I'm out of here.

With my ball cap and hoody on, I climb out of the storm shelter, hide the entrance cover with the same large dead bush, and take off jogging toward the hardware store.

Just as I pass the pond's oak tree boundary, the voices started in. "Typical." I groan and pick up the pace as a distraction.

"Where have you been?" asks Honesti.

"Brother man, youz one stupid cray!" shouts Bouncer, obviously needing to brush up on English 101.

At first, with my adrenaline pumping, I ignore the voices. Then I decide to try what Aimee had suggested—define basic rules and lay them out. I've always been the first to blink. _Not anymore._

When I reach the middle of Murdock's grassy field, I stop and began to shout.

"You both need to shut the hell up. I'm in deep shit here. That means you are too. You got that?"

A flock of birds takes flight, but the voices stay silent.

That's new.

I lower my voice and speak slower. "If I get caught, we'll all be stuck in Willowgate for way longer than any of us can handle. Or worse, we'll be dead. So I have new rules for us. You speak only..." and I emphasize _only_ , "when you have something important to say that can help me."

I start jogging again. "Let me repeat. Speak only when you have something important to say. Next. No bullcrap, no rants, no endless arguing, no whispers. It messes up my head. And no random opinions about shit that doesn't matter." I raise my voice. "Got it?"

"Screw you!" shouts Bouncer. "No way I'm listening to a punk ass kid—"

I interrupt, shouting at the top of my lungs. "Oh yes, you will! I'm not backing down this time. No way. If you don't listen, then we'll all just die together. Or better yet, we'll sit here in this field until the sun turns us into jerky. You feel me?"

For the first time ever, Bouncer stops arguing and Honesti stays silent. _Maybe Ames was right?_ The assertive badass approach works.

I refocus on the hardware store and jog. "So here's the plan. I'm going to talk with my friend JT. After that, I'll either sneak home or sneak into the hospital to check on Ames. Then I'll return to the shelter and regroup."

I've never thought it possible to get the voices to listen. For the first time ever, I'm in control. Talking to the voices with authority works.

"You both have been recruited to be my eyes and ears. Speak only when I need to know something. No superficial blah-blah-blah. You help me, I'll listen. You don't help me, I'll end up full of Stewart's pills and you'll be gone anyway. Deal?"

"He does make a good point," says Honesti. "I'm in."

"I'm still thinking," says Bouncer.

I stop jogging and drop to my butt, sitting in a field at a ranch along the highway. "I'll sit here until you agree." I lower my voice to an angry growl. "Understand?"

The breeze whistles across the tall grass. A moment passes. I'm determined to stay sitting until Bouncer agrees.

"Fine," says Bouncer, his voice sounding whiny. "You could have been nicer about it."

I roll my eyes, wondering why I didn't try the demanding, direct approach earlier. "Okay, Team Reizo. We do this together."

I get up and take off in a sprint.

# chapter thirty-seven

I'm in the backseat of the black Dodge with my hands tied with a plastic tie-wrap.

Zeke leans in close and slaps me across one cheek, then the other. "Tell me!"

My wrists throb. "Jerk!" I scream. "Stop it!"

Zeke fidgets as if his body itches. "Where's Reizo hiding?"

"Screw you," I say, looking away and coughing.

Josh lets out a sigh, as if being bored hurts worse than getting shot.

Zeke pulls out his handgun and rubs it like a bottle with a genie inside. He glares at me. "You think you're really smart? Is that it, Smiling Aimee?"

I turn my head and stare blankly out the car window. "Screw you."

Zeke chuckles. "Oh really? You're just making it worse for yourself." He puts his gun under his belt and straightens his shirt out while he lets out a groan. "So be it. I've had enough of your shit. We're going to Willowgate."

He leans forward toward Josh. "Turn around."

Josh appears nervous for the first time. He turns the car around while tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

I keep my mouth shut, trying to think of a getaway plan. But it's hopeless. I'm in no shape to jump out of a moving car with my hands tied. Besides, where would I run if I could? I'd never make it to Uncle's ranch. I can't go to the police. Mom's law firm is across town.

My shoulder aches.

"If she won't help us find her boyfriend, we'll have to make an example out of Rush's smiling girlfriend." Zeke leans in close to my ear and pushes his glasses up with one finger. He smells like month-old bread. _Gross_. "That's you, Miss De Lucca. Isn't it?"

He's confident, but frustrated. I use all my strength to lean away. "Get the hell away from me!"

Zeke barely moves. He retrieves a cell phone from his pocket and taps the screen. "Dr. Stewart, please."

A moment passes while he glares at me.

"Oleg. I'm bringing over De Lucca . . . Yep, admit her. Later in the week, we'll move her to one of the old cells down in the basement after we send out the shipment. I expect Rush to go cray when he finds out she's missing."

Zeke covers the phone and sneers. "Go cray, get it?"

"Go to hell." I look away.

He continues talking on the phone. "Uh huh. Yep. . .No. I won't screw this up. The next load arrives later in the week . . . Yep. A thousand kilos . . . uh-huh. The route is clear. . .all my buyers expect delivery once we cut it up and prep it for shipment . . . Don't worry yourself, no one will ever enforce the will. I'm taking care of it . . . I realize we'd lose control of Willowgate. Just relax. Jeez . . . Good. Oh, and I have two tickets for you. Dad is kicking off his campaign for governor next week . . . I'm pulling up right now. Arrange a room for the girl."

He puts away his phone. "My great-great-great grandpa would be proud." He laughs.

I scowl, but he ignores me.

"Good old gramps dealt in acres," says Zeke and chuckles. "I deal in kilos. Willowgate will be your new home . . . at least for a few days, until I can get rid of you, Miss De Lucca, and your little boyfriend."

Josh drives the car behind Willowgate's sprawling building to a delivery truck entrance made of crumbling mortar and aged reddish-gray bricks. Large rusty iron letters cap the rear entrance: _CO NTY PSYC IATR C HO P TAL_. Smaller letters below spell out: _SI CE 1881_.

Zeke directs two other muscle-bound twenty-something orderlies in green scrubs toward the car. One pushes an empty wheel chair to the passenger door on my side.

My eyes dart from Zeke to Josh as he opens the passenger door. I glance at the guys in scrubs. Flight or fight.

Fight is out. I'd have no chance against the hulk.

Flight it is. _But where do I run?_ There's nothing but grass around the hospital and dense trees a half-mile away. It's doubtful someone would help me.

I have no choice. Without thinking, I kick the passenger door as a guy opens it. He flails backward. Before he can react, I'm outside the car and running as fast as I can across asphalt toward the grassy field, my hands tied together in front of me.

Even with my hands bound, the two muscle-bound orderlies are slower than me. I'm easily out distancing them. Zeke's guys may have thick necks, but my track experience is paying off. There's no way they're going to catch me.

Then it happens. A pain in my chest stabs me like a butcher knife. _Oh God._ Not now. More pain, sharp and deep, taking my breath away, and causing me to stumble.

I force myself to shake it off and keep running, but the pain spreads to my shoulder and down my arm. It rocks me to my bones.

I lose my balance and tumble to the ground, struggling to breathe. It hurts so much worse than before, worse than ever. My ears ring. The world has stopped, but I'm still spinning. I suck in air with effort and wheeze it out again.

One of the muscle men catches up with me and picks me up into his arms. I don't resist. I can't. He carries me back to where Zeke and the others are standing, then drops me into the wheelchair.

I try to speak, but can't.

"Way stupid," says Zeke, shaking his head. "Everyone knows you're a little broken-hearted track star with no gas in your tank."

I want to curse back at him, but sucking in air takes all my effort. No way I'm giving up. I take in a deep breath and ready myself for another escape attempt.

Zeke's hired hands surround me. One light-skinned man, with tattoos all over his neck and extending upward, covering his shaved head, pushes on my shoulder to keep me in the chair. Another guy looks a couple years older than me, skinny, with tied-back long hair and a nose too big for his face. He pushes down on my other shoulder. A third man with a buzz cut towers over the others. His close-set eyes give him a cartoon look. And his unnatural body is chiseled in some places and puffy in others. They're all wearing scrubs and appear to be in no mood to take anymore shit from me.

I struggle to breathe and come to the obvious conclusion that I'm screwed.

"Get an oxygen bottle for her!" Zeke yells. "Now!"

Moments later, the skinny guy shoves tubes into my nostrils and attaches a metal canister to the wheelchair. He turns a knob. A hissing sound forces air into my nose.

I sniff it as deeply as I can to let the oxygen fill my lungs. It feels as if I'm drinking in water after going without for days.

I'm breathing now, but the pain in my chest is lingering. I glare at Zeke. "Why . . . are . . . you . . . doing . . . this?"

"You don't listen very well, do you? We've been through this already. Remember? Back in your hospital room?" Zeke shakes his head. "You had your chance. Too late. Not smiling anymore, huh?"

I use all the remaining energy to shape my right hand into a fist, then release my middle finger and wave it up at him. "G-o . . . t-o . . . h-e-l-l . . . y-o-u . . . b-a-s-t-a-r-d."

He shakes his head and grins. I want to punch the jerk in the face.

Just as my breathing slows, the tattoo guy pulls both shoulders from behind, forcing me to sit back in the wheelchair. I try to pull his arms off of me, but I can't move. The skinny guy wipes my arm with something wet, then sticks me with a needle and pushes whatever is inside the syringe into my vein.

I instantly smell alcohol.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

How may I be of service, General?

>>search system status

?I have encountered an error?

>>search system status

Attempting to rebuild memory access

One moment please......

Success

Password: *********

>>command

?Please specify command?

>>update on reizo rush

Unable to locate the enforcer

Secured Secondary Soul As Leverage

>>logout

Good-bye General

Login:

# chapter thirty-eight

I've been watching the back door of the hardware store from behind a dumpster for thirty minutes. I'm convinced the cops aren't staking it out.

After another ten minutes, JT exits the backdoor with an employee for a smoke break. But I stay hidden behind the dumpster until he's finally alone.

"Remember what I said," I whisper to Bouncer and Honesti. "Silence. Only speak up if you can help. Any nonsense bullshit won't be tolerated. I'll lose it and they'll find me. Then you know what happens, right?"

"Locked up at Willowgate," mutters Honesti.

"Right."

"Fine," grumbles Bouncer.

I pull the hood over my cap and jog to where he's smoking. When JT sees me, he scowls and shakes his head.

Not a good start.

"Where the hell have you been?" JT throws down his cigarette and stomps it into the cement with the toe of his black shoe. "The cops have been here twice looking for your ass, asking where you could be. Shit, dude. Your mug shot is on every news channel."

"Sorry. I needed to find out how hot I am. I need some advice."

"Seriously?" JT peers past me, shifting his head to the right, then to the left. "You're nuclear. They're determined to put you away."

"Two cops tried to arrest me. I had no choice. I bolted. They just happened to show up at the hospital right after Zeke threatened me. I don't get it. Why do cops care so much about a tagger?" I pace and rub my face.

"Reiz, you're rambling," says Honesti. "Ask JT the most important question."

Good point.

I continue. "I thought Zeke was just a small time drug dealer. Are the cops on his payroll?"

JT looks around as if someone might show up at any minute. He lowers his voice. "Don't be stupid. Zeke's daddy is the one paying the cops. The little creep just does what he's told."

"Zeke is the son of a drug kingpin?"

JT nods nervously. "The word going around is that Zeke's dad has family connections. Russian, I think."

My stomach tightens. "As in Russian Mafia?" It sounds too farfetched. JT is still acting weird, but I don't know why. "Yeah, right. Russian Mafia in Franklinville? Don't be ridiculous."

"I know it sounds crazy, but some are saying Isak Sarov Corp. is just a cover for the Russian mob. Zeke and his father are involved."

It starts to sink in. The Sarov family is wealthy. Big houses, expensive cars, and anything else money can buy. _Mafia?_

I shake my head and chuckle. "Why would some foreign mafia be interested in Arkansas?"

"I know, right? But I'll give you one reason: The Isak Sarov Corp. owns most of the land and old buildings in Franklinville. And guess who controls the Isak Sarov Corp.?"

"Isak Sarov?"

"Nope. The Russian Mafia. Hell, they even planted a fake doctor to run Willowgate."

"Fake doctor? At Willowgate?"

JT rubs his palms on his pant legs. "They use Willowgate for other things."

Other things?

"So this is all about drug smuggling?"

"Sort of. Once Zeke's dad is elected Governor, the Russian mob will control the state of Arkansas. I heard they plan on making Franklinville a central distribution point. Who'd ever expect Arkansas, right?"

So the operation is bigger than just Zeke supplying drugs outside of Franklinville. But something still doesn't add up. "How do you know all of this?"

He fidgets and pushes me. "Look. Just talk to Zeke. Forget about the will. That's what I'd do, if I were you."

JT opens the backdoor and glances back. "Where you headed next?"

"The hospital. I need to check on Aimee."

He stops, letting the backdoor close. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Aimee De Lucca is missing. Her mom has been sobbing on the news, asking for any information about her whereabouts."

"This is bad," Honesti gasps. "Not Aimee."

My pulse quickens. I walk up to JT, grab his shirt and pull him in until his face is a few inches away. "What the hell do you mean, missing?"

"Easy—" JT pushes me away. "She disappeared from her hospital bed yesterday after breakfast. The nurses didn't see a thing. The news is speculating she's with you. They're saying she either ran away or you kidnaped her. Even issued an Amber Alert. The entire town is searching, but I doubt they'll find her."

My head feels as if it's going to explode. "Why do you say that?"

"My guess is Zeke snatched her."

Honesti gasps.

"You should have kicked his ass when you had the chance," says Bouncer.

"Bouncer!" shouts Honesti. "Remember Reizo's rules."

My face burns. "Where would Zeke take her?"

JT hesitates, and then lets out a blast of cigarette breath as he speaks. "Where the hell do you think? Probably the oldest historic building in town, one that's owned by the Sarov Corp."

"You mean—?"

JT nods. "Yep, Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital."

"But why does Zeke care so much?" I kick the cement and groan, then shout. "All because of a stupid will?"

JT shakes his head yes. "I suppose they can't take the chance that they'll lose control of Franklinville. The will, Z. Give them the freaking will."

I know what I need to do. There really are no other options.

"Do me a favor and contact Aimee's mom," I say. "Tell her I'm not with Aimee. Tell her we'll all meet up at Murdock's ranch once I find Aimee. Oh, and let her know about the Russians and the Sarov's. She'll know what to do."

"Where you going now?" asks JT.

"Where do you think?" I groan. "I'm going to find her at Willowgate."

"No, not that place," whispers Bouncer.

"He doesn't have a choice," says Honesti.

"You want a ride?" asks JT.

His offer surprises me, given that it's the middle of the workday. "No, but thanks."

"Be careful," JT says. "If I were you, I'd—"

"Give them the will. Got it. I hear what you're saying."

"They're bad news, dude."

"Thanks," I say. "I owe you, man."

"The understatement of the century," JT replies. "Now get the hell out of here."

I take off running down side streets and through every drainage pipe I know.

"You're seriously going to Willowgate?" Honesti asks.

"Are you crazy?" Bouncer asks.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and continue jogging.

"Ames needs me," I say, breathing hard.

"Tell me you're kidding?" asks Bouncer, his voice sharp and unusually serious. "Tell me!"

"This is really dangerous, Reizo," says Honesti.

"Are you going to tell them you'll forget about the will?" asks Bouncer.

I run faster in the direction of the one place I vowed never to see again. "Nope."

"Then what are you going to do?" asks Honesti.

"I'm going to break her out."

Honesti and Bouncer gasp. They stay quiet the entire thirty-minute jog. When I arrive at Willowgate, I find a tree to hide behind, and then peer at the entrance. Weathered iron brackets and wood cornices support the roof, giving the front an old Victorian-gothic look. I want to puke.

"You gonna stand here all day, sport?" asks Bouncer.

"Please reconsider," says Honesti. "Couldn't there be another way?"

"Nope," I say, making two fists. "With Aimee inside, the only way to find her is through those doors."

"She better be inside," says Honesti.

"She has to be," says Bouncer. "You heard JT. Besides, the large guy walking in the front door is that hulky dude from Moser's class," says Bouncer.

"That's right," says Honesti. "He was with Zeke in the hospital. Remember, the guy from your math class?"

Josh the hulk jogs up to Willowgate's front doors in clothes two sizes too small. He hurries into the building.

"How are you going to break in?" asks Honesti.

"I'm not." I groan.

"What do you mean?" asks Bouncer.

I abruptly walk toward the building. "I'm not sneaking around anymore. Screw it. I'm going in through the front door."

"Are you sure?" asks Honesti.

"Yep."

"Oh hell, I was afraid of that," says Bouncer.

I open the glass front door and march into Willowgate's lobby and outpatient entrance.

Turpentine. Bleach. Florescent lights. Polished wood. Shiny floors. Bad memories blast my face like a summer wind, but the thought of rescuing Aimee keeps me focused.

Scores of men and women in blue scrubs rush through the large lobby as if they're late for a bus. A woman with shoulder-length black hair and dark eye makeup with "Ms. Weaver" on her nametag sits behind the front counter, working on paperwork. Miss Weaver's bleached white teeth beam through her red lipstick like a spotlight. She shifts her attention from paperwork to me.

"Welcome to Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital. How may I help you, young man?"

I stand straight and try hard to contain my nerves. I need a good story to get past the guard sitting next to a locked door at the back of the lobby. If I raise her suspicions, I'll never get past him.

"Watch yourself," says Honesti. "Easy does it."

"Don't trust the woman," says Bouncer.

"No kidding," I reply.

A crinkle appears above the bridge of Weaver's slight nose. She doesn't look like someone who'd be on Zeke's daddy's payroll. "Pardon me?"

"Good morning, ma'am. A sixteen-year-old girl arrived here within the last twenty-four hours. She's a good friend of my family. I'm here to visit her."

"That's your plan?" asks Bouncer. "Really?"

Honesti shushes Bouncer.

"Oh?" Miss Weaver says, as her brow furrows. "Her name?"

"Yes. Um, De—" I stammer, but quickly calm myself.

Miss Weaver raises her voice. "Her name, young man?"

I hesitate.

Bouncer whistles the theme song that plays on the game show _Jeopardy_ when a contestant tries to solve a question.

"Stop it!" shouts Honesti.

"Oh, um." I whisper. "Her name is De Lucca. Aimee De Lucca."

Miss Weaver takes in a long breath through her teeth and picks up a clipboard with a stack of papers attached. She licks a finger and flips through a few pages, then stops and taps something into her computer. "Huh. That name sounds so familiar. Let me try calling."

She picks up the phone and presses four numbers. "Did we admit a Miss Aimee De Lucca recently?"

Ms. Weaver looks up at me and taps a red fingernail on her desk.

A few seconds pass.

"Right. Yes. Sure. Alright then." She hangs up the phone.

The door next to the security guard buzzes, prompting the guard to stand and open the door.

Ms. Weaver points and nods to the guard. "Right through there, young man."

I'm shocked. It was way too easy. I'm in. "Thanks."

"That was simple," says Honesti.

"Yeah, too simple if you ask me," says Bouncer.

"Nobody is asking you," says Honesti.

"Stop," I whisper under my breath, casually walking past the guard and through the doorway.

A skinny man in blue scrubs with tied-back long hair greets me. "You're here for Miss De Lucca?"

I nod. "Yes."

"Please, follow me."

The skinny guy and I proceed down a hallway to another security guard in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. The guard's eyes search me. He gives the skinny dude a cool nod and allows us to pass.

We continue to a silver elevator that looks new compared to the walls around it. Two husky men in dark suits stand on both sides of the elevator doors. They look uncomfortable, as if it was the first day they ever wore a suit.

Something doesn't feel right, but I can't figure out what. I'd do better exploring solo.

"This ain't right," says Bouncer. "Something major is wrong, kid."

"I agree," adds Honesti.

"Bolt!" shouts Bouncer.

The elevator door opens just as I turn to run, but the two big guys block my escape. They grab each of my arms and drag me into the elevator.

"Hey!" I scream. "What the hell are you doing?"

A guy with long hair marches into the elevator. Another husky man with tattoos all over his bald head and down his neck reaches inside the elevator and presses a button.

I try with all my strength to pull away from the two guys, but they aren't about to let go of me. "What is going on?"

"Shut your mouth," the skinny guy replies as the elevator doors close. "Unless you want to die where you stand."

I struggle to breathe.

I'm in deep shit. _Think Reizo!_

After ten seconds, the elevator groans and stops with a thud. A loud chime rings and the doors open.

"You're in trouble," says Honesti.

"You gone," says Bouncer.

No! This can't be happening.

Dr. Stewart is standing outside the open elevator with a blank expression on his face. His dark, beady eyes peer at me from behind thick-lensed glasses. "Welcome, Mr. Rush. We have been expecting you."

"Run!" Honesti yells.

I try to push my way through them, but the two muscle-bound dudes hold me tight. I can't break out of the clamped-down grip. _I'm hosed._

"How is your mother?" Stewart asks, calmly. "Lovely woman, that one."

I pull away, but move barely an inch.

The two jerks tighten their grip.

"Where is Aimee? Where is she?"

A thin-lipped grin stretches across Stewart's face.

"What have you done with her?" I shout.

Stewart silently grabs my wrist with one hand and lifts up my sleeve with his other. He plants a needle into my arm.

I grimace and collapse to my knees.

The two hulks finally let go, but I'm in no shape to bolt with a warm tsunami racing through my veins.

"Why?" I sneer at Stewart, my speech slurring. "Why are you doing this?"

Stewart's blue eyes bulge and his bony jaw tightens.

He steps back and crosses his arms.

"Sleep well, Mr. Rush."

# chapter thirty-nine

Drifting. In. Out. Blurs of white. Distant screams. I feel a hand on my face. I can't focus.

Then I see the wrinkled skin of an old woman's face about three inches away. She holds one of my eyelids open with a thumb and flashes a light.

I scream.

The gray-haired woman takes a step back. She's reeks of ancient perfume, too strong and too much. "Why hello, young lady. Don't you get riled now." She steps forward. "Everything 'll be fine."

The woman forces me to sit up. She's strong, too strong for me to fight with drugs pumping through my veins. She holds up a syringe and pushes out some moisture from its needle.

Before I can object, she wipes my arm and sticks me with a needle. "Just relax now and let the tranquilizer work. It doesn't help to fight it." She shakes her head and adjusts my pillows. "Call me Miss Crowley. I'll be your nurse while you're in."

In where? Why is she grinning? I remember Zeke. The car. An earlier needle prick. I try to form words, but gibberish comes out.

"It's not often we get two transfers in twenty-four." Miss Crowley's voice is soft and kind.

I want to object, to scream out, but I can't. Everything is moving in slow motion. _Two transfers?_

"Now, now, Miss Young."

I manage to grunt out words. "Name . . . not . . . Young."

"Oh my. I hear that all the time. You'll be just fine. Don't you worry. Dr. Stewart says it's true, so it's true. You're a little confused is all. He's planning a therapy regiment for you, little darlin'. Only the best for Miss Young." She chuckles.

Dr. Stewart? Therapy plan?

I struggle to form words, painfully forcing one out at a time. "Shouldn't . . . be . . . here."

"Oh don't you worry now." Miss Crowley winks.

I rub my face, then my head. "But . . . I . . . really—" I scream and pull at my hair.

_My hair!_ It's gone. It feels like I have a pixy cut.

_Oh, no!_ Everything is moving in slow motion. I push my face into my hands and sob. _Two transfers? They must have Reizo too._ I fall backwards onto a pillow and stare up at dangling florescent lights.

After a few seconds, I try to sit up, but my body won't move. I can't even move my fingers. Distant mumbles. I'm floating. My eyelids are heavy, too heavy. I try to keep them open, but it's way too hard.

I give in.

# chapter forty

Brightly lit block walls covered in cracked white paint surround me.

My mind is foggy at first, but when I see a gray door with a small, one-foot square wire-meshed window, I know where I am. _Willowgate._

"Reizo!" yells Honesti.

"Wake up!" yells Bouncer. "Stupid plan."

"You're in trouble!" shouts Honesti.

I sit up and grab my head. "Stop . . . yelling!"

They stop.

"Give a second. Let me think." I start to brush my hair back with my fingers, but stop. _Oh no._ My heart skips and then restarts all at once. "No!"

"Oh no," says Honesti.

"Shit! My hair! They buzzed me!"

"Bummers, it was cool long," says Bouncer.

"It'll itch," says Honesti.

"Your brain bucket ain't round either, brother man," says Bouncer.

"Seriously sad," says Honesti. "But get it together. Hair will grow back."

"It won't if he's dead," says Bouncer.

"Ah man." I scratch my stubby head, grinding my teeth.

"Will you both shut up for a minute?"

"They probably cut it so no one would recognize you," whispers Honesti.

The terror of being locked up at the one place I swore I'd never see again trumps concern over my shaved head. Stewart must be working with Zeke. It makes sense. Willowgate is the perfect place to prepare drugs and hide two people Zeke wants to disappear until he can dispose of them. Bastard.

"Someone is coming," says Bouncer.

"Lay back!" shouts Honesti.

I squeeze my eyes shut and put my buzzed head on the cold pillow as the door opens.

A woman walks in singing a church song, "up on the mountain..."

I open my eyes and squint.

A thin old woman with curly gray hair and _"_ Nurse Crowley _"_ on a nametag is busy organizing sheets and folding towels. She glances at me. "Welcome back, Mr. Reed from Bama."

Mr. Reed? Bama?

I sit up. "Reed?"

"Don't happen often, but seems like every place outside Franklinville is filling up these days. Two transfers in twenty-four, increases my workload in one day."

Reed? Two transfers? _Me. Ames?_

I consider telling her I'd been kidnaped, but I'm not sure if I can trust the woman. The situation feels impossible. Worse than I imagined. From previous lock-ups at Willowgate, I remember the staff's mission: " _Do as directed, keep patients calm, and don't believe anything the guests say."_

Zeke must have committed us under fake names—we're not from Franklinville, as far as the staff is concerned. I'm pretty sure there's no way the nurse will believe anything I tell her.

Flash backs of previous visits at Willowgate hit me all at once. Stun guns. Pepper spray. Taser electrodes. Shocking pulses of electricity boiling my blood. Wiping out my short-term memory. Flexed muscles—twisting and frozen.

I want to scream, but I can't afford to freak.

Ames needs me to stay calm to get us out of Willowgate before Zeke kills us.

"Your hazel eyes sure look familiar," says Nurse Crowley. "But Dr. Stewart told me it's your first time with us. Guess I need a day off, I suppose. Oh lord. Ain't that the truth . . . Let's see now."

She scans papers on a clipboard. "One shot a day. Huh. I suppose Dr. Stewart wants to keep you sedated for now until he can examine you. Says here he'll prescribe regular meds after your psych review. A bit unusual, but he's the doctor in charge."

Nurse Crowley removes a prefilled syringe from a large metal box and rips open a small alcohol pad. "Will ya be nice for Nurse Crowley? I really would hate to bother Dmitry. That man can be rough when he holds folks down, don't ya know. Oh my, yes he can. If I need Dmitry one time, I'll have to use him every time. That's how it works here, ya know."

At first I'm going to fight her, but a large dude filling the doorway makes me think twice. Dimity is printed on his nametag. I'll have to wait to make a move.

I nod and force a smile.

"Excellent." She wipes my arm and sticks me with the needle.

"Impressive," whispers Bouncer. "I hate needles."

Honesti shushes him.

I decide I need to be her best patient, at least until I can come up with a plan to escape and find Aimee. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Why sure, young man. Now get some rest, ya hear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent," the thin old woman says. "I just know you're going to be one of my best patients. Aren't you now?"

I nod again and fall back onto a pillow. The tranquilizer is working fast. My eyes are already heavy.

"Dr. Stewart will visit in a few days. He'll set up your meds after he meets with you, then I'll stop these darn once-a-day shots. For now, get some rest. We'll wake you later for Hoecakes. You'll like them."

Nurse Crowley points to the small no-door bathroom with no sink and no shower. "You're lucky. Got you a private room. Most the other rooms have two, four, or eight beds. Most have roommates. The other rooms even require us to unlock the bathroom. Yours don't have a door. But I'll need Dmitry to help you shower down the hall when you want one."

_Hell no._ I don't plan on being at Willowgate long enough to shower.

"Sorry, young mister," Nurse Crowley says as she walks out of the room. "You'll need to stay in your room for now. Doctor don't want you mingling."

The door clicks as it locks from the outside.

Every nerve in my body is telling me to freak. But if I do, we're both screwed. The voices must be worried. They're actually behaving themselves, whispering encouraging words rather than their typical rants.

A wave of self-pity hits me as warmth from the drug crawls through my body. Tears stream down my temples.

Aimee is somewhere nearby behind a locked door.

_But where?_ The building is huge.

How am I going to find her?

For the first time ever, the voices are actually trying to help me. Aimee's idea about getting them on my side is working.

I try hard to concentrate and visualize an escape plan. But the drug takes hold before I can.

For now, sleep is the only plan.

# chapter forty-one

My chest burns. Dizziness. Needle sticks. My arms weight a million pounds.

Moving is impossible.

I run my fingers through my pixy cut hair and sob.

How long has it been?

Hopeless. Foggy images. Swirling thoughts. Flavored gelatin. Beef soup.

A yawn takes over my face and then leaves me crying. My life can't end this way. _Locked up in Willowgate._ If only I could get to a phone to call Mom. She'd know how to stop Zeke.

I can't concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time. Somehow, I need to sneak out of my room. Find Reizo.

Oh God, I'm tired.

Suddenly, the door rattles and I hear keys jingling. The door bursts open.

Nurse Crowley enters my room backwards, pulling a cart full of dirty dishes through the door. She turns the cart around and pushes it next to the tray stand beside my bed.

"It's a special privilege to eat in your room, you know. Why on Earth haven't you touched your soup?"

I don't respond.

The nurse collects my soup bowl and stacks it on a pile of other dirty dishes. "Maybe a piece of good 'ole cherry pie?"

My mind drifts to the pies Grams used to make. I loved her pies. Especially when they were warm with vanilla ice cream, milk—

"Miss?"

I try to focus, but Nurse Crowley is a blur. Her perfume is making me sick. I manage to shake my head and close my eyes.

I hear sobs and realize they're mine. How does she expect me to eat? I can't even move.

"Now, now, young miss. Everything will be just fine. Rest is what you need for now. A little more rest is all. You'll get your strength back soon enough. Got me an order to move you. They'll be coming soon to take you back to Little Rock." She chuckles. "Don't you worry none. I hear the food is just as good there as it is here. I bet they have cherry pie too."

I try to object, but no words form.

She sits me up in bed, as if I'm a rag doll. I try to push myself away, but Nurse Crowley is too strong and I'm too weak. I'd make a run for the door if I could, but the drugs have drained all the life out of me.

I shut my eyes. Her energy is calm on my feeling meter.

She really believes I should be here.

Nurse Crowley grabs my arm and wipes it with an alcohol swab. "Will you be a nice young lady? If you fight me, I'll have to call Dmitry. He can be a little rough. And once I use him, I'll have to use him to hold you down every time. Them is the rules, so it's best not to fight. Understand, darling?"

My hands tremble, my breathing is short and labored. I manage a nod.

"Good. Take a deep breath. Try and relax now." Nurse Crowley pushes the needle in my arm.

"Excellent," the thin old woman with superhuman strength says, putting the needle away. "I just love new patients who listen, like the new boy about your age. He's such a gentleman. Handsome too. Oh my. You'd like him. Head is shaved just like yours, but his eyes, ooh, honey. I just love hazel eyes. He arrived 'bout the same day as you did this week. Maybe a day later."

She looks at her wristwatch.

I try to move, but my arms and legs don't cooperate. I'm excited as I inhale, but panicked as I exhale.

They have Reizo.

I get it now. They don't want anyone to recognize us. I hear myself crying again.

She continues. "Now, now. You get yourself some rest. You'll be fine in no time. Oh lord, how time flies. Get some rest, young miss."

A moment later, she closes and locks the door.

I stare at the ceiling, tears flowing down both sides of my face.

I'm trapped.

I think about finding the storm shelter. It was the worst thing that's ever happened in my life.

After a while, the tears stop and I manage a smile when I think about Reizo. Finding Reizo was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I melt into the bed.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

How may I be of service, General?

>>search system status

?I have encountered an error?

>>search system status

?Cannot recover memory?

System Unstable Please Try Again

reset............

>>search system status

Password: *********

>>update on reizo rush

Secured At Holding Facility

?What action would you like to take?

>>assign Stewart

Confirmed Follower Stewart has been assigned

>>command

?Please specify command?

>>interrogate and turn

Confirmed Follower Stewart will begin process

>>logout

Good-bye General

Login:

# chapter forty-two

It's morning and the tranquilizer from yesterday has mostly worn off. _Hang on Ames. Today is the day._

I stay on my side, facing away from the locked Willowgate door and its small window. "Let's review the checklist. After the last couple days, I'm pretty sure I have Crowley's schedule down."

"Efficiency is Willowgate's weakness," says Honesti.

"Right. I know when they make their rounds. When my meals are delivered. The time plastic trays are picked up. When Crowley gives me the tranquilizer shot and records my vitals. I know the time that goliath Dmitry walks me down the hallway like a zombified puppy while Crowley changes my bed sheets."

"What about protection?" asks Bouncer. "Pain delivery. You get me?"

"Sure. Yeah, I got it covered."

During one drowsy walk, I tried to peer into a door-window down the hallway looking for Aimee. Dmitry squawked like a crow and showed off the stun gun under his three-ex shirt.

"Dmitry wears a stun gun on his belt along with his pepper spray."

"Those will work," says Bouncer.

"What are you going to do about the tranquilizer shot?" Honesti asks.

"Good point. Crowley usually gives me the shot after my stroll around the floor with Dmitry. I'll make my move before the stroll."

"You'll need to move quick," says Bouncer.

"No kidding." I sigh. "Stick with helpful stuff, got it?"

"Whatever," replies Bouncer.

I continue with the checklist review. "I snatch the shot from Crowley and make my move."

Bouncer laughs out of the blue, but doesn't say anything.

"He can do it," whispers Honesti.

"We'll see, won't we," says Bouncer.

"Zip it," I say.

Bouncer stops laughing. "What if—?"

I interrupt. "Look! I have no choice. It has to work."

"Okay, brother man," Bouncer says. "I believe in youz."

It takes some coaching, but the voices are listening. They feel sort of like a combination of spy, sensor network, and alarm system. They're even helping track who shows up and when they show up.

How can two voices can track time and know things before I do? All I know is that Aimee's suggestion to get the voices on my side is working. We're a team. _Ooh-rah._ The rest is bullshit.

"Here comes Nurse Crowley," says Honesti.

"Get ready, boss man," adds Bouncer. "Time to rock."

"After you deal with the big guy, head for the nurses' station," says Honesti. "They'll have a computer that can access the patient list."

"Right." I glance at the clock on the bed stand. _9 a.m._ "Time to roll."

"I'm nervous," whispers Honesti.

"Shut up—" Bouncer starts.

Honesti interrupts with a loud shush.

Nurse Crowley unlocks the door. Big man Dmitry is with her, as usual.

"Good morning, Mr. Reed from Bama." Nurse Crowley puts her medical kit on the table next to my bed, leaving out the syringe full of tranquilizer with a plastic cap over its needle. "You ready to do a lap with Dmitry while I change your bedding?"

I turn over slowly and put on my best drowsy act, trying hard to keep calm.

"Dr. Stewart will be here soon. Called this morning in fact. Been busy with other hospital business, I suspect. From what he tells me, you're moving back to Bama after all."

_Moving?_ Hell. I picked the right day to break out. No turning back now. I seriously doubt Stewart plans on taking me anywhere. I'm guessing Zeke's plan is to move us permanently six-feet underground.

I feel my pulse racing, but I don't show it. _Failure is not an option._

"Re-lax, dude," says Bouncer. "Show us what you're made of."

I lower my eyes, still acting as if the drugs from the day before are working, and slur my words on purpose. "Yes, ma'am."

I push myself to the edge of the bed and sit up.

"Come on, Mr. Reed," says Dmitry. He rubs the stubs of my hair as if I'm his pet dog.

Oh man. I want to kick his ass so bad, but I restrain myself. I need to stick with the plan.

Patience.

Dmitry continues. "Stand up, Reed."

"Easy, brother man," says Bouncer. "Wait for it."

I glance at the bump in Dmitry's shirt near his waistline. I make a mental note. _Stun gun and pepper spray on his belt._

Dmitry sniffs as if he's collecting it to spit. "Move it, Reed. We ain't got all morning."

"Oh my, he's asking for it," Honesti says.

"Please, Mr. Reed, " says Mrs. Crowley. "You need to go with the gentleman while I change your bedding."

I do a quick review: _Dmitry, stun gun, pepper spray, syringe near the medical kit, Mrs. Crowley._

"Now!" Honesti shouts.

In a sudden burst, I throw all my weight behind one shoulder and firmly plow into Dmitry while using one hand to snatch his pepper spray from under his green scrubs. As I pull the spray from his holster, I realize there's no way I can grab the stun gun too.

When Dmitry falls backwards, I spin and grab the syringe from the table, and then spin again, ending up in front of the door. I throw my shoulders back and pretend like it is all part of my plan.

I'm freaking out, but I don't show it. _No way._

"Oh my, you have moves," Honesti says. "Nice going."

"Okay. That was impressive," says Bouncer. "Now zap the asshole."

I glare at Dmitry with the capped syringe in one of my hands and the pepper spray in the other. "I'm not your pet dog, jerk."

"Good one," says Bouncer.

Dmitry narrows his eyes. "I'm going to—"

"Don't move!" I glare at him, and then look at Nurse Crowley. "Sorry ma'am. My name is Reizo Rush. Zeke Sarov kidnaped me. I don't want to hurt anybody. I just want to—"

With no warning, Dmitry lunges at me.

"Watch it!" shouts Bouncer.

I point the spray at Dmity's face and push down with my thumb. A stream of spray splatters across Dmitry's face. He grabs his face with both hands, collapses to the floor, and screams at me in a language I don't understand.

Mrs. Crowley takes a step forward.

I hold up the pepper spray. "Please don't."

She holds out open palms. "Easy now, young sir."

"Good bye, Mrs. Crowley."

I back out of the room, shut the door, and lock it.

# chapter forty-three

The room I'm being held in is as dark as a closet. The only light creeps in from under the door.

I've been moved!

Distant voices. Some people are speaking English. Others are speaking what sounds like Russian. I can't make out what they're saying as I slowly sit up.

It takes a minute for the head spin to stop before I can stand up and balance. I shuffle in the dim light and find a thick iron door handle. The handle doesn't budge when I try to move it.

Footsteps. People speaking.

Someone is coming.

I sprint back to the bed, lie down, and roll onto my side, away from the door.

The door swings open and I force my eyes shut.

"Check her," says Zeke. "The drugs should be wearing off by now."

Someone shakes me. I groan and move slightly, pretending to be out of it.

"Ah shit. She's still unconscious."

"What do you want me to do?" asks another guy I don't recognize.

"We'll wait until Stewart brings the crazy kid down. Then we'll get rid of the two love birds together."

"You're a regular romantic," the guy says and laughs.

" _General_ is not pleased," a man says with a strong Russian accent. "You clean this up, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry about it," says Zeke. "The shipment will be distributed on time."

The man says something in Russian I don't understand.

"Chill, Viktor. This little mess will go away. I'll deal with it personally."

"You know what we do to _Americans_ who cross us, yes?" says Viktor.

"Don't worry. We'll take them to a cheap hotel," Zeke says. "And make it look like the love birds overdosed."

"I'll take care of it, boss," another guy says.

"Don't use the good stuff," Zeke adds.

"Do not fail," says Viktor.

They abruptly leave the room and lock the door.

When the footsteps fade, I frantically search the dark room on my hands and knees.

I need a weapon.

# chapter forty-four

Twenty-feet down the hallway of patient-rooms at the nurse's station a nurse stands up.

"Mrs. Crowley?" she calls out.

I only have seconds to react. I know once she realizes Dmitry isn't with me, she'll be suspicious and make a phone call. "Nurse? Can you please come down here? The door accidentally shut."

I bend over, facing my closed door as if I'm still drugged.

The nurse jogs to me and then places a hand on my shoulder. "What happened?"

I abruptly straighten up and turn around, pointing the pepper spray at her. "Back to your station, please. I need your help."

Crowley pounds on the wire-mesh window and I see the nurse's eyes go wide.

"Please ma'am. Listen to me." I give Crowley a polite wave and walk with the nurse back to her station.

The nurse's voices trembles as we walk. "You really don't want to do this, young man."

"Don't say a word and just do as I ask. I promise I won't hurt you."

When we get to the nurse's desk, the elevator chimes, its doors open.

Oh hell!

Honesti and Bouncer gasp.

Dr. Stewart walks in with his cold blue eyes fixed on me. His face tightens. "Nurse, where is attendant Dmitry?"

I grab onto the back of the nurse's scrubs, hang my head, and lower my eyes, pretending to drool _._

The nurse doesn't respond to Stewart.

" _Ewe,"_ says Bouncer.

Stewart rushes me. "Don't move—!"

When Stewart grabs at me, I raise up the pepper spray, point it at him, and spray. It hits him right in the face. He falls to his knees, rubbing his face and yelling.

The nurse screams.

"Now you know how it feels!" I shout at him.

"Didn't see that one coming," says Honesti. "Nice move."

"You're starting to impress me after all," says Bouncer.

The nurse fumbles for the phone.

Before she picks it up, I jump up onto the counter like a human frog and wave the bottle of pepper spray around like a mad man. "Don't! I don't want to hurt you, seriously."

She recoils and puts down the phone.

"Don't forget Stewart," says Bouncer. "He can be a tricky bastard."

With the pepper spray in the one hand and the syringe in the other, I lean in close to the nurse and hand her the shot. "Stick this in his arm."

"No I—"

"Please, just do it. It's the tranquilizer Crowley was going to give me. That's all." I push the syringe toward the nurse.

She grumbles and takes it from me.

Dr. Stewart says something I don't understand—probably in Russian. He starts to get up and grab for something under his jacket.

Shit. I've forgotten his Taser.

During a past visit to Willowgate, I figured out the hard way that Stewart carries around a Taser. I told him to go to hell that day. He told me he was sending me there first, pulled out the Taser from under his white jacket, and sent the electrodes into my chest. _Piece of crap._

I push the doctor back, and then toss the empty bottle of pepper spray at him. "Sit back down."

He reluctantly sits on the floor and rubs his face.

I snatch the Taser from under his coat, along with his bottle of pepper spray and wave the Taser at the nurse. "Please nurse, give him the shot!"

Stewart's face tightens. "You're dead."

The nurse rips open an alcohol square, wipes Stewart's arm, and injects him.

"I'm not dead yet," I say. "Now stay down and don't move."

Stewart slurs something and sneers.

"Night-night," says Honesti.

My heart is about to explode out of my chest. I talk faster. "I need to know what room the recent transfer is in. There was a girl my age who was admitted earlier in the week, maybe the day before I was admitted."

"Hurry!" shouts Honesti.

"Please!" I yell. "I know this looks bad, but seriously, I've been kidnaped. I'm not supposed to be here."

"Tell her to search admissions," says Honesti.

The panic in the nurse's eyes tell me she still thinks I'm nuts.

I step toward her. "The girl is the missing girl on the news, Aimee De Lucca. I'm Reizo Rush. Stewart and a kid kidnaped us because we found something that will probably put them out of the drug business."

"You don't have long," says Honesti.

"I know. Will you chill?"

"Let the boy think," says Bouncer.

"Sorry," says Honesti.

I shout, "Please shut up!"

The nurse jumps and peers at me with her eyes wide.

I lower my voice, focus on the nurse, and talk slower. "Please. Search the patient log."

The nurse taps on the computer keyboard.

I pick up a phone on the nurse desk and dial information. _Who do I call?_ I could call my Mom, but she'd freak. Maybe JT, but Steve has access to a van and occasionally drops patients off here. No one will suspect he'd be helping me.

"What number please?" A voice on the phone asks.

"Connect me to Franklinville Medical Hospital, please."

"Thank you," the voice says.

I point to the nurse. "This is a matter of life or death. Aimee has a heart problem. Zeke is probably going to kill her."

"Zeke Sarov?" the nurse asks. "That slime bucket is involved? Why didn't you say so? He's trouble. I know that for sure." She glances down at Dr. Stewart, who is now on his back, passed out. "I never liked Stewart either."

"Yeah, he's working with Zeke. I'm pretty sure Zeke runs a drug operation from Willowgate. I just don't know where."

The suspicious glint in the nurse's eyes suddenly changes. "Why didn't you tell me that earlier? I've suspected something was up with Dr. Stewart for a while now. I see him talking to Zeke almost every day."

"Franklinville Medical Hospital," says a new voice over the phone. "May I help you?"

"Steve Baxter, please."

"Thank you."

A few seconds later, Steve answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Steve, this is Reizo."

"Reizo Rush? I thought—"

I interrupt. "Look, I can't explain. I need you to drive over here to Willowgate. Park around back, I'll be coming out the rear entrance. You know where, right? The rear entrance where they bring in the new patients."

"Is everything okay?" Steve asks.

"No, Zeke kidnaped us. He shaved my head and committed me. Aimee too, I think. I just broke out. By the time you arrive, I hope to have Aimee. We'll meet you around back. Got it?"

"But I'm—"

"Steve, please dude. This is an emergency. Life or death. Can you help us?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine. I'll be right over."

Just as I hang up, the nurse says, "Well, I'll be. You were right. A girl was brought in two days ago. She was put in room 131—but—huh? That's weird. She was to be moved back to Little Rock early this morning, but instead of a transfer authorization, there's a note that says " _See Dr. Stewart_."

"Oh no. I'm too late," I mutter.

"Maybe not," says Honesti. "Find Zeke's drug operation."

"She could be dead already," says Bouncer.

"Don't say that!" says Honesti.

I peer at the nurse. "If Zeke ran an operation at Willowgate, what part of the hospital would he use?"

"What now?" the nurse asks, clearly confused.

"Is there any part of the hospital that's off-limits?"

The nurse frowns. "Um, the basement. Dr. Stewart made it clear that the basement is closed off. It's the only restricted area in the entire hospital. He told everyone it is off limits, supposed to be filled up with cement or some such thing to reinforce the old foundation."

"Check the basement for Aimee," says Honesti.

"Be careful or you'll die, brother man," says Bouncer.

"Stop it," says Honesti. "The basement, Reizo."

I ignore Bouncer, but Honesti has a point. A large basement would be the perfect place for a drug operation. There's no way an operation would be in any open part of the hospital or everyone would know about it.

"Do you believe me now? Zeke wants the two of us dead. Stewart has to be involved."

The nurse glances down at Dr. Stewart passed out on the floor. She turns to me and asks, "What can I do to help?"

"My friend, Steve, will be around back in a few minutes. He'll be in a van. In the meantime, call Pete Murdock's number at the ranch outside of town. Tell him what's going on. Do you know the ranch I'm talking about?"

"Sure, sure. Everyone knows Murdock's ranch."

Reizo continues. "Don't call the police. Zeke has most of them paid off. Tell Mr. Murdock to call Aimee's mom. We'll meet her at Murdock's. Got it?"

"No wonder they don't let us down there," mumbles the nurse.

"Can I borrow your badge to use the elevator?"

The nurse points to Stewart, who's still on the floor. "Use Dr. Stewart's. His badge will work, but you'll need a special access key for the basement level."

I pull off Stewart's white jacket with his badge still attached to it. I notice a long chain dangling from around his neck.

"That's it," says Honesti.

I yank the chain and take the key.

"You aren't thinking about walking around in socks, are you?" asks Honesti.

"Good point."

Stewart's shoes look about my size. I pull them off his feet and put them on—they're a little big, but better than running around in socks. I put on Stewart's white coat over my Willowgate issued pajamas and then place the pepper spray and Taser into the jacket's large pockets.

The nurse shakes her head as I lead the way to the elevator. "I never did like that man," she mutters. "Stewart has always given me the creeps."

"Try having him for a doctor. Come on. We need to hurry."

"I'll take the stairs and unlock the back entrance and wait for you at the elevator on the ground floor," says the nurse. "You'll need me to show you through the maze of hallways to the back entrance."

"Cool. Thanks."

The nurse disappears down the stairway.

# chapter forty-five

I hear distant whispers and footsteps on the other side of the locked door.

Chemical smells, mildew, and dust.

I want to throw-up, collapse and cry, but I don't. Instead, I search the darkness for anything I can use as a weapon.

Part of the wall feels like rusty iron with large bolts. Other parts feel like rough mortared brick.

As my eyes adjust to the small amount of light, I can tell the room is nearly triple the size of a closet and completely empty, except for a small cot against one wall.

The only thing I find is a rolled-up iron chain under the cot. It's about three-feet long.

The chain isn't much, but it's something. I keep two feet of chain loose with the rest wrapped around my hand, and return to the cot. I practice swinging it back and forth.

It will do damage, but no way is it going to stop a big guy. The only thing I have going for me is the element of surprise.

Now I wait.

# chapter forty-six

Pressing the down button over and over isn't helping the elevator arrive any faster, but it feels productive.

"Be empty."

"Be empty," says Bouncer.

"Be empty."

"Be empty," says Honesti.

"Be empty."

After a few seconds, the elevator bell chimes and the doors open.

The elevator is empty.

Awesome.

"Damn you're lucky," says Bouncer.

"Luck is a good thing," says Honesti.

I quickly get inside the elevator and insert Stewart's ID card into a slot on the button panel near the floor selection buttons. I notice a slot for a key on the lower part of the panel, next to a metal button marked with a B, presumably for basement.

I push in the key.

It fits and turns.

When I press the B button, a tiny green light illuminates and the doors close.

The elevator rattles downward.

I pace inside the small space like a trapped tiger. "Come on."

"Relax Reizo," says Honesti. "You got this."

"Take 'er easy big guy," says Bouncer. "Or die."

I stop and grab my head. "Remember the rules! Chill with the play-by-play. Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," says Bouncer. "Dying ain't in the plan, right?"

"Right. We're finding Ames, then getting the hell out of this place."

"Now you're talking," says Honesti.

I button up the long white jacket and get ready for the elevator to stop.

With both hands in the large pockets of the white doctor jacket, I grip the pepper spray in one hand and Stewart's Taser in the other. I should feel like a badass, gripping two weapons, but when I look down and see pajama bottoms from the knee down, crazy ass is a better description.

The elevator doors finally open.

I peer past an empty desk into a massive rectangular space the size of the floor I came from. It's filled with a hundred people wearing surgical masks, working at long tables extending the length of the building. Some people are taping up boxes, others stacking, and a few carry boxes up cement stairs on opposite sides of the basement. Both stairways apparently lead up and out of Willowgate.

"It's a drug operation, all right. A big one," I mutter.

"The side entrance must be how Zeke moves workers in-and-out of Willowgate without staff noticing," says Honesti.

"Get your ass in gear," says Bouncer. "What the hell you waiting for?"

No one notices me. It's probably thanks to the white doctor's jacket I'm wearing with the badge attached. I relax my grip and breathe out slow.

"You have about five minutes tops," says Honesti.

"Right." I make a mental note. "What? Why five minutes?"

"Just move, Reiz," says Honesti.

"You better act like you should be here," says Bouncer.

I walk out of the elevator with confidence and continue along one side of the building. A few people glance up as I near them, but they quickly go back to work. I don't see Zeke anywhere.

At the far end, I notice a group of old rusty iron doors running along one wall. _Rooms maybe?_

"Check the iron doors," says Bouncer.

"Yep. I see them." I pick up the pace and hope like hell she's inside one.

"If Zeke has Aimee locked up down here, that's probably where he'd keep her locked up," says Honesti.

"Better hurry," says Bouncer.

When I reach the first large iron door, I knock on it. "Ames?"

"Really?" asks Bouncer. "You expect her to hear you whisper through an iron door? Speak up, man."

When I knock on the next door, I raise my voice. "Aimee."

After four doors with no sign of Aimee, I knock on the last iron door and lean my ear against it. I hear movement.

"Ames? You in there?"

A faint voice replies, "Reizo?"

# chapter forty-seven

The room is still dark as night, but I suddenly feel a familiar energy and a racing heartbeat.

Reizo?

I tighten my grip on the chain just in case I'm wrong and jump to one side of the door.

The big iron door squeaks open and I prepare to swing.

"Ames?" asks Reizo.

I drop the chain and wrap my arms around Reizo. "Thank God you found me!"

His soft lips find mine and my world fades away as I melt into him. Warmth. Safety. Love.

I want the moment to last forever.

Reizo wipes the tears from my face gently and peers into my eyes. "I'd thought I lost you. Are you okay?"

"I think so. I'm just groggy."

Talking outside the open door causes us both to flinch.

"Zeke will be back any minute." I squeeze his arm. "We need to get out of here."

Reizo touches my hand and looks out the door. Waves of determination and intensity radiate from him. It gives me hope. He points to a staff identification card clipped to the doctor coat he's wearing.

"Just pretend I'm part of the Willowgate staff taking you out of here to the elevator."

I notice all his beautiful hair has been buzzed. I run my fingers across his head and feel energized. "Nice hair."

He forces a grin. "Yeah, thanks. Yours too by the way." His energy shifts.

Reizo glances at the door opening. "We need to get out of here. Steve is going to drive us to your uncle's ranch. I told him to tell your Mom to meet us there."

"Steve?"

"The security guard from the real hospital, " he says. "Remember?"

I remember the big guy from the hospital. "Can we trust him?"

"Yeah, I trust him." Reizo grabs my bicep. "Show time."

# chapter forty-eight

I escort Aimee quickly down Willowgate's hallway.

I'm tempted to use one of the side stairways that lead outside the building, but I told Steve to meet us at the rear entrance of the hospital. He'll have a van waiting for us.

I stick with the plan and walk to the elevator.

"How'd you find me?" Aimee whispers as we walk.

"I'll tell you later, right now keep your head down and shuffle your feet like your drugged up."

Through the corner of my eye, I see stacks of large clear plastic bags full of white powder.

"This is a processing factory all right," says Honesti.

Stacks of wrapped green stuff are spread across tables. Steam rolls off of a large silver canister with copper pipes against the wall across the room. The entire basement is full of just about every kind of illegal drug that Zeke could possibly sell.

"Probably a million bucks worth of drugs," says Bouncer.

I noticed something else that makes me walk faster. _Guns._ Crates full of different types: long rifles, handguns, and automatic weapons.

Suddenly someone behind us screams in Russian.

Aimee and I jump at the same time, but we keep walking.

I tighten my grip on her arm. "Don't look back."

"Move it, Reiz," says Honesti. "You don't have much time."

Near the elevator, a tall, gaunt-faced man with a shaved head in a white coat sits down at a desk.

_Crap._ We keep walking toward the elevator.

The man at the desk shouts back in Russian, then quickly gets up and sprints past us down the hall. He yells at three men working near a silver canister.

When Aimee and I finally reach the empty desk, I notice an open binder. It looks like some sort of log.

"Take it, brother man," says Bouncer.

"It could be records," adds Honesti. "You'll need proof to put Zeke away."

I discretely pick it up and see names, dates, cities, and street addresses written in it. Honesti is right. It looks like an inventory logbook.

I hand it to Aimee. "Hang onto this. It might come in handy."

" _Hurry up, Reizo_ ," says Honesti.

I push on the elevator button, willing it to open. "I'm trying."

"What?" Aimee asks.

"Nothing. Lower your eyes and hang your head. We're almost out of here."

I let go of her arm and put both hands in the jacket pockets, gripping the pepper spray and the Taser. I'm ready to start zapping people coming out of the elevator.

When the doors open, two men in white lab coats walk out of the elevator, struggling to carry heavy boxes. They're talking in Russian and ignore us.

"Made it," says Honesti.

"I'm shocked," says Bouncer. "I was sure he'd screw this up."

We step into the elevator. I fumble with Stewart's identification card, slide it into the slot, and then push the ground floor button.

"You better hope the nurse is still waiting for your dumb ass," says Bouncer.

"No shit," I mutter.

I shake my head at Aimee when she gives me a confused look.

"That's enough you two," says Honesti. "Stay focused. Reiz."

Before the doors start to close, Zeke walks into the hallway from one of the side stairway entrances and spots me. "Stop them!"

"Damn." I hold the elevator door open and turn to Aimee. "I need to create a diversion. A nurse will be waiting for you." I hand her the key and Stewart's ID card. "Give her these. She'll take you to the back entrance where Steve will be waiting. Give the binder to your Mom. Got it?"

"No. You have to come too." Aimee's eyes flood with tears.

"Sorry. There's no time. Zeke will stop us for sure. I'll meet you at the ranch, I promise."

Zeke and another man are getting closer.

I give Aimee a quick kiss, jump out of the elevator, and run, letting the doors close behind me.

Sprinting toward Zeke catches him off guard. He hesitates, allowing me to change direction. I jump up on the tables in the middle of the room and run faster, dodging workers, stacks of drugs, and boxes.

Near one of the cement stairways, I leap off the table at the opposite side of the basement.

"Stop him!" Zeke screams. "I want him alive!"

# chapter forty-nine

My head is foggy, but my eyes are clear.

The nurse Reizo had mentioned stands outside the elevator on the ground floor as the doors open.

I hand her the key dangling from a chain and the ID card. "Reizo told me to give these to you."

"Right," the nurse replies. "Thank you."

She leads me through two locked doors to a van that's waiting and helps me into the passenger's seat.

Steve fastens a seatbelt around my waist.

"Thanks for—" I start to say with a raspy voice.

Steve stares at me and interrupts. "Where's Reizo?"

"He's creating a distraction," I say. "He wants us to get out of here."

The nurse pats the van's hood. "Go!" She steps back. "Move it!"

Steve hits the gas, throwing me backwards in my seat.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, fishtailing the van away from Willowgate.

"Yeah," I manage to say, hanging on to the dashboard. "I'll be okay."

Steve careens around a corner and then straightens out the van. He's picking up speed when a caravan of black Escalades with flashing blue lights approach us on the two-lane highway. They're closing in fast.

Steve slows and pulls over, swearing under his breath. "Amazing. I always thought Zeke's dad was running something funny from Willowgate. Never suspected the kid was involved. Reizo told me Willowgate is a drug distribution center. Is it true? Dr. Stewart and the local police are involved?"

"Yeah, all true."

Steve sighs with relief when the black Escalades speed past us on the road toward Willowgate.

As the Escalades pass by, I notice men inside wearing black ball caps with white letters on them: FBI.

Reinforcements.

# chapter fifty

I ditch the white jacket, but keep the pepper spray in my left hand and the Taser in my right. Up the stairs and out the side door, I bolt into a large expanse of grass toward a tree line.

Zeke and his chiseled bodyguard continue their pursuit.

"Move faster!" shouts Bouncer.

I glance back and notice Zeke slowing down, apparently sending his beefy bodyguard to do his dirty work. The guy is fast and gaining on me. _Damn._

A moment later, Honesti shouts, "He's on you! Stop, drop, and roll!"

She better be right.

Just as the bodyguard nears me, I drop and roll on the ground, turn, and fire the Taser at the guy. Probes explode outward attaching to the bodyguard's shirt like hungry leaches. The muscle bound dude shakes violently, collapsing to the ground.

I stand up and watch the guy squirm in pain.

"Keep moving!" shouts Honesti. "Zeke is running again."

I throw the Taser at the guy. "Jerk." I take off running toward the trees as fast as I can manage in Stewart's loose black shoes. I glance over my shoulder. Zeke runs past his downed partner. He's getting closer.

"Man you're slow!" shouts Bouncer. "He's gonna catch your dumb ass!"

A crackle echoes through the trees and a white flash streaks past me. A shock wave nearly sends me into a face plant, but I manage to keep moving. "What the hell?"

Zeke is nearly on me. "Next time it'll be in your back!"

Stewart's shoes are flopping around on my feet and slowing me down.

"Don't stop or you're dead!" yells Bouncer.

"Faster, Reizo, don't look back!" shouts Honesti.

I keep running, my chest rising and falling.

"That's it!" shouts Zeke. "I don't care what they want me to do. You're dead!"

As I near the trees, another white flash zips past my head.

_Missed again_.

I run to the right, then to the left in a zigzag pattern, but stumble and fall.

Another crackling flash barely misses my head.

"What is he shooting at me?"

I get back up and run faster.

"You don't want to know," Bouncer replies.

"You're not helping."

"Stay focused, Reizo," says Honesti. "Run."

Zeke is gaining on me. Another flash whizzes past me. My ears ring.

"Tuck, roll, and shoot," says Honesti. "I'll tell you when."

I keep running without looking back. I'm going to have to trust Honesti again. "Tell me when."

"Almost," says Honesti. "Wait. Wait. A little closer."

"He'll never make it to the trees," Bouncer says.

I hear Zeke breathing hard. "You're—"

"Now!" yells Honesti.

I tuck and roll, point the bottle of pepper spray at Zeke's face, and send a stream of hot sauce directly into his face.

Zeke tumbles and grabs his eyes. There's a grotesque crunching sound and an ear-piercing scream when he hits the ground. As I get back up to my feet, I notice Zeke's leg is bent back in a gross, unnatural position. A sharp branch is sticking out of his bicep.

Zeke grabs onto a gold bracelet with colorful gemstones on his bloody arm. He screams in pain, "You're so dead! Dead! You hear me?"

"Right. Who's the badass now?" I throw the spray bottle at him and flip him off. "You piece of crap!"

"I'll destroy you," screams Zeke. "Squash you like a bug."

"Yeah, right," I say, staring at the blood streaming from his arm.

"You did it," says Honesti. "Get moving."

"Impressive," says Bouncer. It surprises me, but I don't have time to gloat. "Badass is your middle name, son."

I turn around and jog off toward Murdock's ranch with a smile on my face.

"I've never seen that gold thing on his arm before. Is it a laser blaster or some kind of wearable gun?"

"Sort of!" says Honesti. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "I knew that kid was an Enforcer."

"What's an Enforcer?" I struggle to say in between breaths.

"He ain't no Enforcer," says Bouncer. "More like a Follower, if youz ask me."

"What are you two talking about?"

"Just keep running. We'll tell you all about it later," says Honesti.

My thoughts shift to Aimee and Steve, hoping they've made it to the ranch. Steve isn't the sort of guy to let anyone down.

Just as I reach the trees beyond Willowgate's grassy grounds, I hear that familiar crackling sound, but this time a searing pain slams into my right side. It throws me forward. My legs go limp midstride. A million volts shakes my body as I tumble in agony into the bushes and slam into a tree.

" _Reizo!_ " screams Honesti. " _No!_ "

"Ah jeez. I was almost convinced he could do it," mutters Bouncer.

"Zeke was able to get his bracelet to work—" Honesti whispers.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

How may I be of service?

>>search system status

?I have encountered an error?

>>search system status

?I am having difficulties rebuilding?

System Unstable Please Try Again

reset............

You have mail—1 new message

>>display mail

**From:** Carmina

Reply-To:

**To:** General

**Subject:** One last warning

Dear General,

I have tried to be patient. I have tried to give you time to see the truth with which I seek for the betterment of all involved and the advancement of the soul's life experience. Yet, you have not responded.

I take your lack of response as your final answer. I see now I will never get you to change your archaic rules. You are stuck in the past. Granted, your reincarnation rules were appropriate a thousand years ago. But in this modern age we must update them. There are no other feasible solutions. The elimination of suffering is not negotiable. Innocents must be protected from ignorant egos. New rules must be woven into the fabric of reincarnation. Please General. I know we can work together to make it happen.

This is your last chance to reconsider. If you fail to respond, I will move forward and defeat you.

Regards,

Carmina

?Would you like to respond?

>>no

>>delete message

>>search system status

Password: *********

Confirmed Follower Stewart has been assigned

>>command

?Please specify command?

>>terminate

?Who would you like to terminate?

>>reizo rush

Confirmed Reizo Rush will be terminated

>>logout

Good-bye General

Login:

# chapter fifty-one

Mom calls her FBI contacts and tells them about the binder Reizo grabbed from Willowgate's basement. She lets them know I'm at Uncle Pete's house, but Reizo is still missing.

A man's voice emanates from Mom's cell phone speaker. "Yes, ma'am. FBI, DEA, and ATF agents are in the process of raiding Willowgate. Agents will be routed to your location as soon as the State Hospital has been secured..."

I peer out the window, searching the fields around Uncle's ranch. "Reizo should be here already," I grumble, leaning against the wall, rubbing my aching shoulder.

"You should sit on the couch, Aimee," says Hank in a booming voice from across the room. "You need to rest."

"I'm worried."

Steve stops pacing and peers out the window. Sweat covers his puffy face and rolls down his cherub cheeks.

Mom joins us and puts her arm around me. "How are you feeling, honey?" She hands me a glass of water. "Sip this."

Nagging chest pains linger, but I'm not about to tell Mom. I'm determined to wait for Reizo. "I'm just a little light-headed from the drugs they gave me. I'm okay."

"Come on. Listen to Hank, honey," says Mom. "You need to get off your feet." She twirls a clump of her hair with one finger. "We'll wait a little longer before I get you back to the hospital—"

Hank interrupts. "Sharon, we need to wait until the FBI can escort us. I don't trust anyone in this damned town at the moment."

"He's right, ma'am," adds Steve. "The feds are the only ones I'd trust."

"It's amazing that the young man was able to get you out of that hellhole. We never would have found you," says Uncle Pete, standing at the small dining table, pouring ice water into a glass. He hands a glass full to Steve. "Here you go, young man."

"Thank you, sir," says Steve, wiping his face. "I bet they'll close Willowgate down when news gets out."

Uncle Pete forces a smile, then sits down on his old couch and begins to tap his finger on the coffee table.

"Are you sure Reizo said he'd meet you here?" Mom asks me.

"I'm sure."

Hank puts his heavy hand on my shoulder.

There's a sudden knock at the back kitchen door and I feel waves of familiar energy. But I feel pain too. Intense pain.

"Aimee?"

_It's him!_ "Reizo!"

"What in the—?" Uncle hurries to open the back door.

Mom and I follow.

Reizo is standing with one arm against the wall; his face and shaved head are soaked with dirty sweat. He's wearing grimy Willowgate pajamas and gives me his sexy half-smile. "Hey."

I push everyone out of the way to get to him. "You made it." I hug him hard.

He grimaces. "I was more worried about you. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine." I wipe his face with my fingers and kiss him hard on the lips. "Nice pajamas, superhero."

He chuckles, then covers his mouth and coughs.

I see the pain in his eyes that I'm feeling from him.

Steve and Hank help me get him into the living room. When I touch Reizo's back, he grimaces loudly. His smell is different. It reminds me of the rusty iron pot covered in clumps of raw earth that Uncle Pete dug up out of his garden. I pull back my hand and notice it's red and damp. Sticky too. _Blood!_

"Reizo—!"

He collapses onto the living room floor.

I lean over him. "No!"

Uncle Pete and Hank spring into action. Hank helps Reizo get up and walks him to the couch. Uncle Pete retrieves the medical kit and applies compresses to a wound in Reizo's side.

Mom is out of breath when she talks to the 911 operator. Fear and worry radiate from everyone in the room except Reizo. He's in pain.

"Looks like you have some broken ribs," says Uncle Pete. "You've lost a lot of blood, young man. You're probably in shock too. Grab the comforters near the window, Aimee. Let's get him warm."

"I'll be fine," whispers Reizo, pale and shivering.

"You are not fine," I tell him, wiping his face with a wet towel and touching his head with my fingertips.

"Ames, please," Reizo tells me. "You need to get—" He coughs. "Back to the hospital."

"You're one to talk," I tell him, my voice cracking.

"Paramedics are on the way," Mom says. "So is the FBI."

"Good," Reizo says. His face relaxes.

I cover Reizo's legs with a comforter while Uncle Pete keeps pressure on his back wound.

A loud knock at the front door causes us all to freeze.

"Hello?" says a voice I don't recognize.

"Don't open that door," Hank says. "We'll wait until the FBI gets here."

"Hank is right," Mom adds.

"Do you have a gun?" Steve asks Uncle Pete.

"Shotgun. It's in the back closet. Shells are next to it."

# chapter fifty-two

My head throbs and my back aches as Aimee's uncle applies pressure to my wound.

I struggle to focus.

"Keep the door locked!" shouts Honesti. "Don't open that door!"

"Reizo, you in there?" It sounds like JT, but I'm not sure.

"It's fine, Reiz," Bouncer whispers. "It's just your friend, JT."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Aimee peers at me with concern in her eyes. "What?"

I shake my head. "Sorry. Nothing."

"You trust JT, right?" Bouncer asks.

"Yeah," I whisper.

"Don't open the door!" shouts Honesti. "I wouldn't trust anyone right now. Not even your friend."

JT is the only person that would know I'd go to the Murdock's ranch, unless Zeke had managed to follow me. But Zeke following me is unlikely given his current condition.

"It's okay," I say. "It's my friend."

"Are you sure?" asks Aimee.

I struggle to stand and shuffle my feet to the door with Aimee's help.

"What are you doing?" asks Hank.

I hold up a hand to Hank, then unlock the door and pull it open.

Honesti screams, " _No!_ "

As soon as I open the door, I see death in JT's eyes. I know I've made a mistake, but it's too late.

JT grins with a handgun pointing at me.

Hank takes a step toward the door, but freezes when JT waves the gun toward the couch.

"Sit." JT points the gun at Aimee's mom, and then at her uncle. "Both of you too."

"You hurt anyone and you're dead, John Taylor," Hank says as he sits down.

"Reizo is going to die!" Bouncer yells in a panicked voice.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Sorry dude." JT says. "You didn't actually think Zeke's dad was running everything, did you?" He smirks.

I don't respond.

"I guess you did."

"You work for the Russians?" I ask with a groan. "I thought you worked at the hardware store?"

"Russians?" JT shakes his head and laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. That's just a cover. We're called followers. I work for someone else who lets us do whatever the hell we want. Your time is up, sorry man. It's not personal."

I shuffle forward. "What are you talking about?"

JT glares. "Don't! You're in no shape for it anyway."

I suck in a painful breath.

"You better listen," says Honesti.

"Charge him, Reizo!" shouts Bouncer. "Take a blast for the team."

"Both of you back up," JT says.

Aimee and I do what he tells us.

JT walks into the front room and grabs the binder from the dining room table that I'd snatched from Willowgate's basement. "It's my lucky day. Now where's the will? We can't have a change in the ownership of Willowgate, can we now?"

"Put the gun down," says Hank. "Please, kid. Before someone gets hurt."

"Relax, young man," says Aimee's uncle.

"Shut the hell up." JT tosses the gun across the floor. "I'll deal with you three in a minute. The gun isn't loaded anyway. It's just for show."

JT rolls up his right sleeve. He's wearing a gold bracelet exactly like Zeke's bracelet with colorful gemstones glistening.

"Not a chance—" Hank rises to his feet.

JT doesn't hesitate. He points his bracelet at Aimee's mom. "Would you rather me kill her?"

"With what?" Hank asks. "Your fist? That's unlikely kid."

JT points his arm to a wall on his right. A white flash explodes from the bracelet with a thunderous crack and blackens the wall.

Everyone jumps.

Hank holds up both hands. "Okay, okay. Easy now." He reluctantly sits back down on the coach and embraces Aimee's mom. "What in the world is that thing?"

JT waves his arm at me like he's directing an orchestra. "Move back."

"Don't do anything you'll regret, young man," Uncle Pete says.

"I'll find you—" starts Hank.

"I said shut up!" JT screams.

I shift my weight forward.

"No, Reizo," says Honesti. "He'll send you back beyond the ether. Wait."

"Rush him, Rush!" shouts Bouncer, laughing. "Don't listen to her."

JT is too far away. He'd blast me like Zeke did before I could get to him.

"I said back your ass up," says JT.

Hanging onto the blood soaked bandages, I back up.

"Trust me, you about to die, Reizo," says Bouncer. "You might as well go out with a bang."

Aimee cries as she helps me move backwards. "Oh, Reizo."

Her cry makes my blood boil. I can't believe JT is involved.

A Follower? What the hell is a follower?

I hear distant sirens. _Help is coming, but not fast enough._

Hank jumps up, but before he can move forward, JT fires another blast of white light into the ceiling. Hank falls back onto the couch. Aimee's mom screams.

"Move again and you're dead." JT paces to the window, then peers out. "Oh hell." JT's gaze and the gold bracelet shift back to me. "Your time is up, punk ass. I need that _will_ now."

"We don't have it," Aimee's mom says. "But we can get it at my law office on Main Street."

"I don't have time. Damn it." He chuckles nervously. "It's easier just to kill you all. I'll have to make my next stop a visit to your office."

"Oh my," says Honesti. "He really is a Follower."

"Wow. That was unexpected," says Bouncer. "A mass murderer too apparently."

Hank inches his way forward.

I search JT's eyes for a glimmer of hesitation, but he's as cold as empty space.

We're in serious trouble.

"Charge him," says Honesti. "Imagine he's the grizzly."

"Don't tell him that," says Bouncer. "He's not activated yet."

I'm done waiting. Ignoring the sharp pain in my back, I lunge at JT. At the same time, Hank makes his move. Our sudden movement surprises JT.

JT falls backwards when I plant my shoulder into him. He fires a white flash from his bracelet, shattering a picture on the wall. We end up wrestling on the floor. He gets off another flash of light that misses me, but hits Hank in the leg, instantly breaking it.

Aimee's mom and her uncle hurry over to help Hank.

Before JT can shoot off another blast, I use all my energy to ram my fist into his nose. The effort drains every last ounce of energy I have. Dizziness overwhelms me and I cough up blood.

JT pushes me off of him.

I try to grab for his arm, but can't get my fingers to cooperate.

"Don't pass out!" shouts Honesti. "You have to get up. Think about Aimee."

Honesti is right. But my arms and legs are too weak. I shake uncontrollably.

The sirens sound as if they're getting closer, but they might as well be a million miles away. When I try to get up, JT points his bracelet at me.

Before he can fire off another blast, Aimee launches herself at him and hits JT hard in the face, again and again. Badass girl friend is kicking his butt.

He pushes Aimee off of him and struggles with her on the floor. A blast from JT's bracelet misses her and grazes me.

I try to grab JT's arm, but before I can, another blast goes off and hits Aimee in the chest.

JT stands up awkwardly, but Aimee isn't moving.

"No!" I crawl to her and glance over my shoulder at JT.

JT points his bracelet at me. "Screw General. I should have killed you both when you opened the door."

_Oh no._ I grab Aimee's hand. Blood. A spot of blood on her chest rapidly expands and forms an expanding pool of blood on the floor. _No. Please no._

She's barely breathing. "No," I beg. "This can't be happening—"

JT throws his shoulders back and narrows his eyes. "You're one crazy—"

Suddenly, a loud explosion shakes the room before he can use his bracelet again. JT's blood splatter hits the front door before he does.

Steve found the shotgun and scored a bull's-eye.

Blood is everywhere. Aimee's mom screams uncontrollably. Hank swears as he kicks JT, making sure he won't be getting up. Her uncle Pete runs to get a medical kit.

Steve doesn't move. He stands as if he's a statue, with the shotgun still pointed at JT's lifeless body.

It takes all my strength to hold Aimee's head in my arms. She's unconscious and not breathing.

Aimee. Oh Ames.

"I'm sorry Reizo," says Honesti, sniffling.

"Damn." Bouncer snarls.

The room spins around me, changing the color to gray.

Screams fade away.

The world flash freezes and turns gray.

The time passes. The light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze.

Darkness takes hold.

# chapter fifty-three

I emerge from darkness into the light and find myself sitting in front of my easel, overlooking the pond. Vibrant colors are all around me. The pond water looks soft, pastel. Bushes and trees radiate golden light. Joy. Warmth. Love is everywhere.

I remember JT. Blood. Reizo is hurt.

I'm—I'm dead? _Oh God no._

Where's Reizo? This can't be happening. It's too soon. It can't be my time. A sinking feeling pulls on me.

I've lost him.

I don't see Grams, but I notice a radiant butterfly in the distance, its wings beaming with more colors than I knew existed.

As I watch the colorful creature fly towards me, my panic slowly dissolves until I feel only joy.

The butterfly circles me, leaving trails of beautiful light dancing behind it. It flutters, hypnotizing, magical.

I know with my entire being I'm safe. But it's too soon. I'm not ready.

"What have I really done?" I ask the butterfly. "Nothing. I've not done anything since I died the last time. I hid from people. I ran from their energy." I pause to reflect on the moment my life changed. "Until Reizo found me."

The butterfly glides in front of my nose, as if it's trying to tell me something. But I don't understand it.

"Where is Grams?"

The butterfly continues to flutter around me.

I fall backwards on the soft grass near the pond and watch the butterfly fly over the pond toward brilliant bushes and shimmering trees stretching into the sky. A glistening frog swims as a lizard does push-ups. A crawdad scurries about near birds playfully chasing each other. Three skeeter bugs skim across the pond's surface.

Everything around me is full of life. Beams of pure energy pass through me.

I'm overwhelmed with love and joy. The energy connects me to everything beautiful.

_But where's Grams?_ I need more time.

There are so many things I still want to experience. Spending time with Reizo and my family. Exploring the world.

"I can do better," I say to the floating butterfly. "I'll embrace the energy from people rather than letting them crush me. I promise."

I stand up and search around for Grams. "Where are you? Please Grams. It can't be my time yet. It can't be."

Before long, I give up looking for Grams and sit down on a folding chair in front of the pond. It's exactly like the one I used when I was painting.

In the distance, I watch the butterfly slowly flutter away.

# chapter fifty-four

Gliding out of the darkness, I emerge into brilliant light and bold colors.

Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.

All around me the greens are greener. The blues are deeper blue. The red flowers are bolder, the browns richer. Everything is bathed in golden light and more colorful than any 3D scene I'd ever imagined.

Oak trees, bushes, and grass surround a pond resembling Murdock's pond. But the pond in front of me is way more real, more alive, and more amazing than Murdock's pond.

I feel good, really good.

I instantly recognize Aimee sitting alone on a fold up chair near the pond. The next instant, I find myself sitting next to her, as if we are painting, like we'd done before all the craziness started.

I jerk my head around and stare at Aimee. "What's happening?"

Aimee's eyes widen. "Reizo, I can't believe you're here."

I try to understand, but I'm confused.

"It's okay, Reiz. I'm with you," says Aimee. "It's safe here."

In an instant, I feel a wave of joy, cresting and collapsing through me. Love is everywhere around me. But it's weird. I have no sense of touch or smell, yet I feel everything and smell everything.

I gaze deeply into her dazzling eyes.

She smiles. Her face beaming and her black hair and side-swept bangs shimmer and glow.

She's so beautiful.

"You look amazing," I say.

Then I realize her hair looks like it did before Zeke's gang shaved it. My hair is long again too.

Suddenly, I remember everything. Uncle Pete's ranch house. Zeke. JT. Blasts of light. Pain.

I panic. "You were hit with a blast. I was too. What is happening to us?"

Aimee smiles wide, her eyes sparkling like a clear starry night. Her calmness puts me at ease.

"Are we dead?" I ask softly.

A glow radiates from her. Warm. Loving. Kind. But she doesn't answer.

"This is like the experience you told me about, right? The one you had with your grandmother. Am I right, Ames?"

"Yes," she says softly. "But it's different this time."

"Different? What do you mean different?"

"It's my time, Reiz." She pauses. "But I don't think it's your time yet."

I look across the vibrant pond and remember how Ames described her visit with her grandmother. "But I—I don't understand."

She moves in close. "I've been given a chance to say good-bye."

"Good-bye? What? No. You can't. I won't. I—"

"Reizo, listen. I'm sure it's not your time. I can't explain it, but I know it. You have more to do. More to experience."

"But Ames, so do you. We both do. You and me—please."

"I know it seems impossible. But you can choose to return. I know you can. I'll wait for you here while you finish your life, I promise."

"But I—"

"Please, Reiz. Promise me you'll go back and live. Value your life. Experience it. Touch people with your gifts, your love. Share everything with everyone."

"What gifts?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders.

She can't force me to go back, can she?

"Adding color to the gray. You'll know what to do. Other gifts too. Like Grams had told me, gifts you'll discover over your lifetime. Take it one day at a time. Have faith. Trust. The world needs you."

"Ames—" I gaze at her beauty. The moment feels timeless. Boundless. Yet the thought of returning without Aimee is unbearable. My heart feels like it's in a vice that's tightening.

A fire grows inside me. Defiant. Bold. "No way. I'm not returning without you, Ames. I won't. Tell whoever makes the stupid rules around this place that they need to change them." I look up and yell. "You hear me? The rules need to change!"

Ames wraps herself around me in an intense embrace of energy.

"I'll go back if you come with me, plain and simple. Make them understand, Ames. Please. Come back with me."

Our embrace tightens. "Shh," she whispers.

Her whisper causes my fire to cool. I feel love everywhere again. Joy swirls around me. I know in my heart that Aimee has always been connected to me. I've always been connected to her. Warm rays of light circle us.

Fear and anger evaporate. All I feel is love.

My anxiety turns to laughter. I love her so much, but somehow I know she's right.

"Promise me," Aimee says again, her voice sounding like a slow-playing cello, peaceful and soothing, like one of the songs she'd always played on her cell when we painted.

Soft. Sensual. Joyful.

Her beautiful light touches my lips in a kiss.

"Reizo, don't worry. I'll always be near."

I see a glint of determination in her blue eyes. I trust her and believe what she's saying.

I want to fight the rules, change them. But I suddenly remember I have more to do. Something important is pulling me back to my life. Something strong is pulling me back.

I know Ames is right.

I know I need to return.

I can't explain why.

"I'll miss you," I tell her.

"Please promise me you'll return." Typical Ames, she's persistent when she wants to be. "Promise you'll experience your full life. Please Reiz. It's important."

She doesn't need to convince me. I know deep within my soul. I need to return.

"I promise."

# chapter fifty-five

Across the pond, Grams appears and waves at us. Her wavy gray hair shimmers as a smile stretches across her rosy face. She's beaming with excitement.

"Is that your grandmother?" Reizo asks.

"Yes. I think she's come to take me with her."

Reizo and I stand and embrace, but not in a physical way. It's as if our life energies merge and combine. I've never felt so connected, so in love. Then, in a flash, Grams stands in front of us, holding out her glowing hands in front of me.

"This is Reizo," I say. "Reizo, this is Grams."

"I've heard a lot about you," says Reizo in a shy voice with his goofy half-smile.

Grams face beams with love. "Oh my. I hope what you have heard is all good."

"Yes ma'am. Of course," Reizo says, and then abruptly adds, "Does Ames really have to stay? Can't she come back with me? Please, ma'am."

"Well now," Grams says. "You have the rest of your life to experience. You have much to do, young man. But I'm afraid Ames has work to do here."

Reizo frowns.

"It'll be hard going on without Aimee. I know how much you love her. Returning will be difficult for you, child." Her voice is soft and calming. "Just take each day for what it brings you."

"Grams?" I say.

"Yes, darling."

"I need to know. Was my purpose to save Reizo?"

Reizo frowns and raises his voice. "What?"

"Oh, my dear." She shakes her head no.

"What then?" I ask. "I haven't done anything since the last time I saw you."

"I'm sorry, Ames. Your heart was weak." Grams sighs. "Occasionally, the freewill action of another has consequences that shortens an innocent person's life. Such is your case, I'm afraid. Your injuries made it impossible for you to return, dear."

The colorful butterfly reappears and lands on Grams' shoulder, fanning its wings that have now tripled in size.

I feel energy around me like a nearby thunderstorm on a hot summer day.

"But I thought soul mates were meant to be together," Reizo says. "Aren't we soul mates?"

"A complicated question indeed." She smiles. "To understand the answer, you need to think beyond three-dimensions. Think in terms of higher-realms of existence."

Reizo looks confused. "Realms—what?"

"I'm not following you either," I say.

"Well, think of it this way. You are two souls who chose to be together and experience life. And you did so. Your experience was cut short, but you _did_ experience some of life's magic together."

Reizo is frowning. He embraces me with his warm energy. "But if we're soul mates, what's the point of me living without Ames?"

"Oh, young man. As I said, you are two souls who chose to be together. If you go back, you will meet other souls during your lifetime. You will experience life with them too. Such experiences will never take away from the love you have for Aimee."

"You mean we have more than one soul mate?" Reizo asks.

A smile stretches across her wrinkled face. "In the end, all souls are connected. You might say we are all soul mates."

Reizo looks down at his feet.

Grams raises his chin and peers deep into his soul. "What is it, dear?"

"I'm still not sure how I can live without Aimee," he says.

"Simple. Follow your passion. Within passion, you will find purpose and meaningful life experiences."

Grams talks fast and looks at me with a serious gaze. "Oh my. Oh dear. We don't have much time. We must follow the rules, you see. Reizo must return and we must go now. " She turns to Reizo. "Good bye for now, young man. Look and you will see."

Before I can say a word, Reizo's energy vanishes.

Grams and I merge into the brilliant white light.

# WELCOME TO THE CLOUD

Login: general

Password: *********

Hello General

We have hacked your system. You will lose the war this time.

Your ridiculous rules will be replaced with my Carmina manifesto.

Good-bye General

Login:

Login:

Login: general

Password: *********

404 - User Not Found

Segmentation Fault (core dumped)

0000 0100 0b23 013a5

0001 01e0 1243 01c04

0002 23b4 3df3 23934

0004 0100 0b23 013a5

0005 01e0 1243 01c04

0006 5334 3cc3 25977

333...333...333...

rebooting.........

ACCESS DENIED

CLOUD ACCESS LIMITED

REINCARNATION SYSTEM IS OFFLINE

HAVE A NICE DAY

Logins disabled

Super user access only

# chapter fifty-six

I gaze at the railroad tie roof of the storm shelter from the old cot while the antique music box plucks notes. Tears run down my temples. A couple months ago, I'd danced with Aimee in the shelter. We'd kissed for the first time.

Who was the wise ass that said painful loss fades with time?

My feet hang over the end of the antique cot as I gaze up at the railroad tie ceiling of the long lost storm shelter that Aimee and I had found near the pond on her uncle's ranch. In the light of a battery-powered lantern with an antique music box playing, I toss up a leather ball I found in one of the shelter's cabinets. It's weird thinking that my second great-grandpa Thomas was about my age when he lay in this exact spot a hundred-and-fifty-years ago writing in his diary. I catch the ball and grimace.

I miss you, Aimee.

Doctors had given up on Aimee and me, even declared us both dead in the emergency room. One young doctor hadn't given up on me. It'd taken multiple tries before she managed to replace the blood I'd lost and restart my heart, bringing me back to the living.

Aimee wasn't so lucky.

I remember reading a passage Grandpa Thomas wrote in his diary about losing the girl he loved. Tears let loose and run down both cheeks. If I had a diary, I'd write about my Aimee.

After the funeral, Aimee's mother helped my mom find the best psychiatrist in the country, not a fake doctor like Doctor Stewart at Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital. Through trial and error, the doctors came up with a combination of meds that silenced the two voices in my head without turning me into a creative zombie. But the doctors will never be able to fix my broken heart.

I imagine brushing my lips across Aimee's cheek until I find that warm spot behind her ear. I take in a deep breath, but it catches in my throat as my ribs try to expand. I hesitate, then toss the ball upward as I exhale.

"I love you, Ames. I miss—"

"Reizo?" a soft voice whispers.

"Huh?" The ball hits my chest and falls off the bed. I struggle to stand up in a hurry and use my fingertips to comb back my hair. _Weird._ The voice sounds like Aimee.

"Hello?"

No answer.

"Is someone here?" I shuffle around the old storm shelter and try to locate the source of the voice.

"Hey, Reiz," whispers the voice.

I recognize the voice, but it can't be her. "Who's there?"

I have to be imagining Aimee's voice just like the other voices in my head. Last year, classmates at Theodore High School kept their cell phones at the ready when I walked into a room, waiting to record me talking to myself, longing to immortalize my insanity and post it on the Internet.

"I wish you were here, Ames." Memories of her crush me like breaking waves, one after the other. "I love—"

"Reizo?"

The ball lands on my stomach and falls off the bed. "Aimee?"

No answer.

I turn around in a complete circle, but no one is in the shelter with me.

Her voice must be inside my head. Hell, my new meds aren't working. That's got to be it. "Go away. I'm not listening!"

"Reizo? It's really me," Aimee whispers.

_No, not again._ Besides, I never hear voices near Rancher Murdock's pond.

_But could it be—?_ "Ames?"

"Yes, Reiz. It's me."

I hit myself on the forehead. "No. I don't hear you. No damn way."

It's just my out of control imagination triggered by the new meds.

"No, Reizo, it's not meds or your imagination," Aimee says. "It's really me."

"Yeah, right. No way it's you." _I've lost it._ Nothing else makes sense.

"You haven't lost it. The other voices never actually heard your thoughts, remember?" Aimee asks. "Those voices couldn't access memories stored in the cloud either. But I can."

What memories? "Cloud what?"

"Yes, Reiz. Memories from past life experiences."

Now I know I've lost it. "This is totally cray."

"Do you remember the poem you used to say to yourself during visits with Doctor Stewart?"

_Of course, I remember, though it seems like a lifetime ago._ "I never said it out loud. I never wrote it in my notebook. No one knows it except for me."

Aimee's voice continues. "It's in the cloud memory archive, Reiz. Everything you have ever experienced during a lifetime is stored in cloud memory. Even your thoughts."

Her voice softens as she slowly recites. "I am alive. I am dead. Dreams strive. Feelings shred..."

My pulse quickens. _Shit. That's my poem._

"The sun rises. The sun sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts..."

Sweat forms along my hairline, my stomach swirls. "How—?"

Aimee's voice interrupts. "The time passes. The light goes. Lifeless masses. Spirit froze . . . Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky."

"It—it's really you." The words linger in my throat until I force a breath. "Ames!"

My eyes erupt and tears flow down my cheeks. I do my best to collect myself. Chills run across both shoulders and down my spine.

For a moment, I question why Aimee has come back as a voice in my head, but it's enough that she's here with me.

###

#  About the Author

When R.E. Rowe isn't dreaming, you'll find him trying to discover why, figuring out how, uncovering ancient mysteries, searching for a grand unified theory of everything, exploring the universe, writing a crazy fun middle grade or young adult novel, reading a novel, helping a business innovate, inventing something seriously cool, or learning something super interesting. He enjoys participating in science camps and talking to groups about creative topics such as the process of inventing, building worlds for science fiction and fantasy stories, and importance of dreaming big.

#  Connect with R.E. Rowe

**Email at:** rick@rickrowe.com

**Author's website:** www.rickrowe.com

**Follow the author on Twitter:** @rickerowe

For comments related to specific books, please use the following hashtags:

For Voices: #reizoaimee

For Whispers: #reizocarmina

For Hack: #carminawisps

#  Other books by R.E. Rowe

### The Reincarnation Series

**Voices** Copyright 2015 by R.E. Rowe, Book 1

Whispers Copyright 2015 by R.E. Rowe, Book 2

### The Adventures of Jayden Banks and the Jameson Twins

Game On Copyright 2015 by R.E. Rowe, Book 1

#  Acknowledgements

Thank you to all my amazing writer friends for offering suggestions, support and critiques. Thanks to the professional editors and writing teachers I've worked with who continue to teach me the art of transforming neurons carrying story ideas into digital manuscripts. I'm thankful for the amazing authors who spend time teaching writers and sharing the lessons they've learned over their writing careers. Thank you to my author friend Jenny MacKay (www.jennymackay.com) for being an amazing teacher, my Nevada SCBWI Mentorship Program mentor, and taking the time to work with me.

A special thanks to U.K author Vanessa Curtis (http://www.curtisliterary.co.uk) for sharing her knowledge and expertise. And thanks to Randi Taber for her creative suggestions during the proofreading phase of book 1 and 2.

Thank you to Jo'Ann Ruhl (http://www.joannruhl.com) for her encouragement and wisdom. Jo'Ann helped me stay focused on follow through and encouraged me to share Reizo's, Aimee's and Carmina's stories with the world. And many thanks to my friend Ernest Morrow (http://www.ernestmorrow.com) for sharing his wisdom and offering encouragement during the world and mythology building process of these novels—the process forced the characters to stay present, ask big questions and search for their own truth.
