I hold my hand up, drop it when he doesn’t copy, and watch for any sign that he’s happy to see me. He stares, unblinking, until I finally look away. If he’s trying to creep me out, it’s working. I’m the one spying on him from a dark street, but he doesn’t look scared. He looks like he was expecting me. Then the window opens, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to speak.

He leans out, and I strain to hear. But there’s no sound. Instead, something falls from his hand—small white patterns that appear and disappear in the darkness. When one falls at my feet, I pick it up and see that it’s part of my message, torn into so many pieces that they dance through the air like a tiny snowstorm.

More fall on either side of the wall, and I wonder if Amy’s parents will find them and understand, or if they’ll be blown away by morning.

Harrison did what I asked, but Will didn’t do what I hoped. I thought he would explain everything. Instead, he watches the final pieces fall, closes his window, and turns off the light.

When I get home, it takes ages to complete my checks. I doubt myself over and over again, pushing the front door handle ten, twenty, thirty times, and cursing myself when I go back for more.

I can be outside past midnight and not be scared. But, in here, with locks to check and things to unplug, the fear grows fast.

I push my fingers together, my right hand meeting my left at five separate points. It’s another way to balance myself, and it’s easier than when I had to touch something with all ten digits. Sometimes it would be a single button on the TV remote or a random spot on the wall. When it was really bad, my toes would need to touch the baseboard while I split the sentences in my head into threes and fives.

Those days are gone. But, sometimes, if I’m still downstairs this late, I worry they’ve come back. I’m scared that I’m losing myself in my search for something that might not be there. If Amy doesn’t need my help, and Will doesn’t want it, there’s nothing left to do but stop.

No one saved Mum when she was trapped. She saved herself. Is that what they’re doing? Or did we get our wires crossed…twice?

61

STOP LOOKING

The words are carved into our icy car window, their edges trickling in the early-morning sun. I quickly scrape them away before Jay sees, then curse myself for not taking a photo. It’s my job to deice the car before school, and someone clearly knows. Either that or they don’t care who sees.