He grabs a pen and a piece of paper from the space on the floor beside his bed and writes the words “To Candace, forever, with love,” just as it was inscribed in the pocket watch at the old couple’s place. He looks down at the words, wondering why he dreamt about them, why they plague him so. He could hear the words chanting in his head, getting louder and louder by the moment, until he couldn’t take it anymore and forced himself to wake up.
Does he know Candace somehow—from some place he’s not remembering?
He shakes his head, frustrated by his lack of memory but, at the same time, grateful for it. Aside from his life at the camp during the past few months, he has no recollection of anything. Mason said it’s because his past was so horrific that his brain is trying to protect him by blocking out the events, vaguely mentioning a life on the streets, complete with a near-fatal illness, some time spent in jail, and constant begging for food and money. Mason’s also assured him that it’s better he can’t remember these things, that such horrific details might stunt his brain even more.
But now he wants to know.
He grabs another piece of paper and writes a question mark across it, wondering about his mind, if one day it might deteriorate completely. He folds the two pieces up and slips them under his pillow, beside the rock with the pentacle on it, silently praying for recollection.
• • •
Less than an hour later, Shell wakes up—this time, energized by his dream.
He dreamt about Lily.
It felt good to see her so happy last night, to feel her body close to his, and to touch her like that. It almost made the whole idea of what they were doing—according to Clay, Mason, and the rest, not stealing from others, but providing well-off people the opportunity to give when they probably otherwise wouldn’t—less harsh . . . more acceptable.
Almost.
The glint in Lily’s eyes when she wrapped the mink stole around her and set the hat high atop her head made his heart stir. Shell wonders if the owners truly appreciate such items as much as Lily did. He closes his eyes, remembering their kiss, his lips tingling from the mere thought of it.
“Breakfast is early this morning,” Brick mumbles groggily, pulling himself out of bed. “We should probably hurry up.”
Brick’s bed is directly across from Shell’s. It’s a pretty large room, large enough to fit six beds, two dressers, and one closet. There’s also some storage space in an adjoining room but, since campers in general don’t have need for the excessive materials of man, the extra space isn’t really used.
Shell and Brick share the cabin with three other boys: Teal, Oak, and Horizon. The three of them, all a few years younger than Brick, around thirteen years old, are pretty much inseparable. Shell imagines he must be at least four or five years older than the boys, around seventeen or eighteen, from what he can tell of his reflection. When they found him on the streets, he didn’t have an ID, and age seems less and less important at the camp.
Shell nods to Brick in acknowledgement. He knows he should probably get going. Today is trading day and Mason likes to leave right on time. While Brick grabs some fresh clothes and toiletries and heads out to the bathroom to shower, and Teal, Oak, and Horizon remain in bed, relishing the last few minutes of sleep, Shell grabs the folded pieces of paper from under his pillow, his head fuzzing over with questions. He knows that he did a spell last night, but he has no idea why. How does he even know about magic?
He presses his eyes shut, concentrating on the pieces of paper, pressing them into his palms to feel the grains. And then he remembers something else from his dream, something on Lily’s neck. It was a mole or beauty mark of some sort in the shape of an X.
Several of the campers—including Shell, Brick, Lily, Clay, and Daisy—pile into the back seat of the camp car, while Mason and Rain take the front. Mason is driving. They’re headed to the trading field. Every month or so, like-minded peace groups come together to trade their food, wares, and services. It’s like a giant flea market except there’s no money involved, since money is considered to be one of man’s greatest sins—the source of greed, only to be used when absolutely necessary.
“That was quite a night we all had,” Lily giggles, looking over at Shell.
Shell smiles slightly, catching the attention of Clay, and looks away.
“It was a great night,” Clay clarifies. “Quick, easy . . . we all came together as a group.”
“Let’s not forget Shell,” Lily chirps.
“Of course,” Clay agrees. “Shell showed bravery and openness. We should all be as courageous.”
“Indeed,” Mason says, nodding to Shell in the rearview mirror. “I heard all about the night’s success.”
Lily giggles again, causing Mason’s brow to rumple in confusion. Shell glances at her, wondering about his dream, if beneath her knitted scarf there really is a mark on her neck in the form of an X.
He, too, is wearing a scarf. Underneath his coat, Shell wears the wool scarf Lily made him take last night. He smiles at her, wondering if she can sense that he wears it, but then wondering why she would.
“Will you be trading the platinum necklace?” Brick asks Clay. “I can’t imagine what someone would give for it.”
“What necklace?” Clay asks.
“The platinum heart one from last night,” Brick explains. “The one in the velvet case . . . in the woman’s jewelry box.”
“I didn’t take it,” Clay says. “It had the woman’s initials engraved on the charm—much harder to trade that
way . . . I also thought it might be sentimental.”
Mason watches Clay from the rearview mirror, taking everything in. “A good decision,” he says, finally, reaching across the seat to clasp Rain’s hand. “Taking without first considering the sentimental value an object has to its owner is defeating the purpose of what we’re trying to do.”
“Which is giving people the opportunity to give,” Daisy chimes in. She rests her head on Brick’s shoulder, her orangy corkscrew ringlets hanging slightly in her face.
“Very good,” Mason tells her.
They drive the rest of the way in silence, Shell feeling quite relieved that he didn’t take the pocket watch from the old couple’s place, since it too is undoubtedly sentimental. But he’s still not completely clear on the camp’s whole taking philosophy. What gives them the right to decide the worth of somebody else’s possessions? It just doesn’t make sense to him.
He lets out a sigh and looks out the window as they pass by the Bargo Tower. They enter a town called Dalmouth, which already seems more up-and-coming than Brutus. Shell continues to take note of his surroundings. There’s a windmill in the center of Dalmouth, as well as a strip of shops—Beach Blanket Bagel; Cape Chowdah; Fricken Frappe, an ice cream place; and Tidewater Treats, a candy store. The streets are all paved with brick instead of asphalt. The town’s quaintness leaves him with a nostalgic feeling, like maybe he’s been here before.
They drive for several more minutes, well past the center, where it’s starting to look more vacant. There’s a long stretch of open fields on both sides of them—conservation land, maybe. They turn down a few more streets, finally reaching the trading field, which is almost filled up.
There are four long rows of traders. They’ve spread cardboard and blankets over the frozen ground to display their trinkets and announce their services.
Shell and the campers work on setting up their space. Lily is trading her services of hair braiding and neck massaging, while Mason and Rain trade jewelry trinkets acquired from their nightly taking quests, and Daisy trades sweaters, coats, and any leftover household items that couldn’t be hawked in a pawn shop.
Brick and Shell have been assigned to walk the rows, scoping out the trades so they can report back to the group about the deals of the day. Clay follows several yards behind the
m, well out of earshot.
“What’s he doing?” Shell asks Brick.
Brick shrugs. “Mason probably ordered him to keep an eye on us. So we don’t get into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “So we don’t run off or do anything weird, probably.”
Shell looks back in Clay’s direction. It appears as though Clay has slowed his pace a bit, giving them space.
“Just ignore him,” Brick says. “That’s what I try to do.”
Shell nods, taking the advice. They turn down one of the longer rows, impressed the array of tradeables. This is Shell’s second time at a trading field, Brick’s umpteenth, and both marvel at the abundance of choices—palm and card readings, offers for manicures and hair dyeing, handmade quilts, wooden bowls, exotic seashells, and food staples of all types.
They pass by a group of young girls attaching sparkly white angel wings to each other’s backs. “Are your wings broken?” one of the girls calls out to Shell.
Shell stops a moment, then approaches her, noticing how each set of wings is unique, all set apart by their shape—some pointed, some bubbly, others wavy, a few with diamond-shaped cutouts. “I don’t think so,” he says, finally. He looks back at Clay, who watches them from a few tables away.
“May I?” She whirls him around to inspect his back, running her hand across his shoulders. “What happened to you?” she asks, turning him back around.
Shell’s face drops, confused.
“Your wings aren’t just broken.” She gasps. “They’ve collapsed.” The other girls shake their heads with compassion. “Sometimes wings can break like that,” she continues, “but it’s usually only after something terrible happens—a lost love, a near death, a sudden illness—were you sick?”
“I believe so,” Shell says.
The girl nods, unsurprised. “Well, you’re still going to need some temporary wings until yours heal over. I think I have a pair that will be perfect.” She turns to fish through a trunk behind her, pulling forth a simple, straight-lined, no-frills pair from the bottom of the heap. “These will be perfect,” she says, holding them up to Shell. “And what have you got to trade?”
“Maybe I’ll come back later,” Shell says, looking to Brick for backup, though Brick remains expressionless.
“Well, don’t wait too long,” the girl says. “It’s dangerous out there without your wings.”
Shell nods and he and Brick leave, Clay following several paces behind.
“Are you sure you don’t want a pair?” Brick asks.
“Are you serious?” He checks Brick’s expression to see if he’s joking, but he remains as straight-faced as ever.
“Why not?” Brick explains. “Maybe she can see something about your past. Don’t you believe some people have a sixth sense?”
Shell bites his bottom lip, knowing that he must believe it. Why else, in the car earlier, would he wonder if Lily could sense he was wearing the woolen scarf under his coat? “Can you sense things?”
Brick shrugs. “I try to.”
“What do you mean?”
Brick glances back to check for Clay, who’s suddenly stopped. He’s talking to some people at one of the tables.
“Can you keep a secret?” Brick asks.
Shell nods.
“On the way over here,” he whispers, “when Clay said he didn’t take that platinum necklace, I sensed he was lying.”
“Seriously?”
“Forget it,” Brick says. “I’ve spoken out of line. Please . . . forgive me.”
“Sure,” Shell says, his mind scrambling with questions.
“I’ve been working on developing my senses,” Brick continues, “through meditation and spells and stuff. But sometimes it backfires and I just imagine things. I shouldn’t have said anything. Clay’s a good person. Please, don’t repeat any of this. Do you promise?”
Shell nods, growing more confused by the moment. They continue their walk back toward the group’s trading spot, farther away from Clay, who’s still talking away at the cheese-trading table.
When they get just a few yards shy of their group, Shell pulls Brick aside. “Do you really think there’s a chance that girl might have been sensing something about my past?”
“Maybe,” Brick says. “If your past is as awful as Mason says . . . maybe she picked up on it. Sometimes I feel like people can sense stuff about me, too.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know, but I feel like I have a guardian angel out there somewhere.”
Shell nods, somehow knowing exactly what Brick means. He looks back in the direction of the angel-wing booth, suddenly more than eager to go back and talk to that girl, to ask her about his past. But he can’t seem to spot her or her booth now amidst all the other traders, and how could he explain it to Clay? He continues to look anxiously about, in all directions, finally catching the eyes of Lily, Daisy, and Mason. They wave him and Brick over to the camp’s trading spot—precisely where they belong.
I roll over in bed, reaching for the crystal cluster rock beneath my pillow. A few seconds later, the phone rings. Since I can’t sleep anyway, I snatch the receiver from my night table, hoping that it’s Drea on the other end. “Hello?”
“Stacey?” asks a female voice.
“Yes. Who’s this?” I sit up in bed and click on the reading lamp, noticing that I’m alone, that Amber and Janie’s beds are empty. The window on Janie’s side of the room is open partway, causing the window shade to knock against the ledge.
“Hello?” I repeat, still waiting for an answer. I can hear her breathe on the other end of the line. I sit up farther in bed and glance at the clock—it’s 3 AM. “Who is this?” I repeat.
The shade continues to knock against the ledge, the frigid January air pushing its way into the room, giving me chills.
“I know you’re alone,” she whispers.
“Janie?” I ask, wondering if this is her, if she’s playing some sort of prank because she was so ticked earlier about my restoration clay spell.
“You are alone, aren’t you, Stacey?”
I scan the room, confident that the only view in is through the window—when the wind pushes the shade away.
“I’m waiting . . . ” she says.
“Tell me who this is, or I’m hanging up.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” she whispers.
But that’s exactly what I do. I slam the receiver down on its cradle, my heart pumping hard. I take a deep breath and chew at my bottom lip, wondering where Amber is, looking toward her bed for a note.
A few seconds later, the phone rings again.
I ignore it as best I can and climb out of bed to check the door. It’s locked. I turn toward the window. The shade flaps into the room, making me jump. I take small steps toward it, wondering if someone’s out there, if they can see me.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the window to pull it down, but it seems to be stuck. Using both hands, I anchor myself in place and press downward as hard as I can. Still, it won’t budge. So I try the window shade. I try yanking it down even farther, but the shade slips from my fingertips and rolls up to the top, revealing a girl’s face. She stares right back at me.
I gasp and jump back before realizing that the reflection is mine.
“I know you’re alone,” a male voice whispers from just behind me.
I steel myself in place, my heart pounding hard. I strain my eyes, trying to see something else in the reflection, but there’s only me. After several seconds, I peek over my shoulder into the room. No one’s there. But the closet door is open a crack.
The phone continues to ring. I pick up the receiver and hold it up to my ear, wondering if the voice was just my imagination, if maybe I’m
just overtired. Surely the closet door could have been open like that all along.
But I’m almost positive that it wasn’t.
“I know you’re alone,” the male voice whispers from the receiver.
“Who is this?” I demand.
No one answers.
I drop the receiver and move back to the door to leave. I unlock it and go to turn the knob. No go. I pull at the knob and try kicking at the door crack, but it’s no use.
Someone’s locked me in from the outside.
I grab the dangling receiver and go to call campus police. I press at the numbers but nothing happens. I can’t get a dial tone—it’s just dead on the other end. I hang up and move to the window, hoping I can crawl out, but there’s not enough space. My arms shake, trying to pry the window open wider. But it’s stuck in place.
I whirl around, hearing a whimper escape out my mouth. The closet door appears to be open even wider now. Slowly, I approach it, grabbing the tweezers off Amber’s dresser and gripping them for protection.
In one quick motion, I wrap my hand around the knob and whip the door open. There, scribbled in red across the wall, are the words I KNOW YOU’RE ALONE. There are splotches of blood all around it, trailing down the wall. My jaw quivers. My breath stops. I feel myself taking steps backwards, my hand clamped over my mouth.
The phone rings again a second later, making me jump. I move quickly to my night table to answer it. “Hello?”
“Stacey Brown?” says a female voice.
“Who’s this?”
“This is Ms. McNeal from President Wallace’s office.”
“You need to help me,” I say. “Please—I need help—”
“No,” she says. “You need to help.”
“What?”
“Porsha needs your help,” she explains.
“Who?”
“Porsha, President Wallace’s daughter. Her mother wanted me to call you—to tell you that Porsha needs help . . . or else that boy will die.”