I decided to call Sage back and get her to ask her parents for help, even if it meant they had to call the police. As I walked toward the kitchen phone, a shadow flickered at one of the windows at the front of the house. For a split second, I saw something white. I stopped, held my breath. I heard rustling, then tapping against the glass. I looked down at my white T-shirt and wondered if I had seen my own reflection. More tapping. There was definitely someone at the window. I walked to the door, casually, as if I weren’t scared, and hid behind it and waited. I reached to flick on the porch light, turned to look out, then screamed. I opened the door, and Ellen stumbled in across the threshold.

“Oh God, Ellen.”

There was dirt and blood smeared across her face. Below her right eye was a cut, still bleeding. There were cuts down her right arm and leg, and her whole side seemed to be studded with parts of the road. Her uniform and white polo shirt were spattered with mud.

“I jumped out of a car.”

“What? What do you mean?” I shut the front door. I could feel the blood rushing into my head, making a sound like the ocean in my ears. “Are you okay? Are you hurt somewhere?” My voice seemed too loud.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know. I walked here. I couldn’t go home.”

I have to clean her cuts. That’s what has to be done. “Come on.” I brought her down to the bathroom Mrs. Boucher used for herself and visitors. Ellen’s pinafore and knee socks were caked in dried mud. I tried to ease her down on the white porcelain tiles, her back against the cabinets under the sink. She was shaking. Everything in Mrs. Boucher’s bathroom was white and monogrammed.

“Hold on a minute.”

I ran to the linen closet, grabbed a set of brown towels, and came back. In Mrs. Boucher’s bathroom Ellen looked like a ghost, her face blue-white, paler than the sink and cabinets behind her. The veins on her temples and forehead stood out, and the threads of darker veins beneath her eyes and at the sides of her cheeks looked black, as if her skin were see-through. I put the white floor mat into the bath and spread the towel across the tiles.

“Scooch up.”

Ellen raised herself, and I slid the towel under her, then wrapped another around her shoulders. I turned on the water, adjusted it to warm, and ran the brown washcloth under it.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” I said. I squeezed the excess water from the cloth and touched it to Ellen’s face, just under her eye, where the cut was still oozing. Ellen winced and pulled back, banging her head on the cabinet.

“Ow.”