“No,” he said. “But something is clearly going on. And he needs to be assessed by a professional to determine his condition and figure out the best way to treat it—whatever it is. But the bottom line, Ash, is that he has to want to get help, and right now he doesn’t.”

“I know. I need to help him, but I don’t know how.”

“He trusts you. He doesn’t trust any of us.”

I nodded again. I already knew that.

“I’ve been reading up on it, though,” Mr. Taglia said, “and here’s the thing about severe mental illness. It’s like a physical illness, in that the sooner you catch it, the better your chances of recovery. The sooner someone starts treatment, the better their chances at having a normal life. At not being disabled. If this is indeed schizophrenia, it’s in what’s called the prodromal phase. Damage is being done, and you can’t reverse the damage, but if you act early you can minimize it. If not . . .”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

“What . . . causes it? Triggers it?”

“It’s hard to say,” he said. “But we do know that the greatest risk factor for developing schizophrenia is having a relative who has it, so there’s obviously a genetic component.”

I didn’t want this answer, but I needed it. “What about if . . . something happens. Something really bad. Can that . . . ?”

“Well, yes. Trauma is often a trigger.”

I thought of Solomon’s words: I need you to remember.

Something had happened. To both of us. How much of it did he remember? And why couldn’t I? And did it have anything to do with my own depression, the feeling like a hole had opened up in my chest that would suck me into myself forever? If we could get at the truth of it, together, it might save us both.

“Thanks, Mr. Taglia,” I said, standing up.

I called up Connor, because he hates phone calls. As Solomon’s stepbrother, he might have some information or insight that I lacked, into what had happened around the time I fell out of his treehouse. He didn’t answer, but I got three text messages in quick succession:

I’m trying to learn here.

Jerk

Why can’t you text people like normal people do?

The last one came with a winky face.

After school he found me in the parking lot, sitting on my car’s fender, watching seagulls and sparrows squabble over scattered popcorn.

“Hey, Ash,” he said, standing right in front of me.

My motives had been pure when I called him up. But now that he was so close, with the familiar clean-clothes smell of him filling up my nostrils, I weakened. When I was down, when I was stressed, when the hole inside me was at its deepest—I won’t mince words, sex with Connor straightened me out.