Poe looked back and forth between us. “Yeah . . . pretty sure he died before everybody’s time.”

Of course. Idiots.

Hope High: 2, Reg and Charlie: 0.

“Right!” Reg let out a loud laugh, and I worried the boy—Poe—might actually run away from our crazy at that point, but instead, he started laughing too.

“You had me going there for a second! Thought you were about to say you’d never heard of ‘The Raven.’”

“Of course we have,” Reg said. “Though I’d venture to guess half the students in this building have not.”

I wanted to kick Reg for his old-timey talk, but before I could even lift a foot off the ground, the bespectacled Poe lifted his chin and answered, “More of an astute observation than a guess.”

“Indeed,” Reg agreed. “And I’ve made a few observations of the teachers as well. For instance, I doubt many of them are fans of Poe.”

“They’re fans of this Poe.” He stuck out two thumbs and aimed them at his chest. “And I gotta say, I’m not that into the other guy either. I prefer manga to macabre.”

Reg smiled. “Fascinating.”

And so it was that here, in a tiny village in the middle of Iowa, surrounded by cornfields for miles, that Reg found a human who spoke his language.

Poe winked. “Just don’t tell my English lit teacher.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Reg promised.

Safe with me? Was I invisible?

Even in a boring shirt and jeans, I didn’t think I could possibly be invisible, but Reg and Poe were doing a good job of making me feel like I wasn’t there. They walked together toward the school building, chattering on about the evolution of literature and the layout of Nowhere interchangeably, while I shuffled like a shadow behind them.

Once the Hope High doors opened, Poe led us to his locker, where he pulled out a stack of materials for each of us, rapidly naming off items as he piled them into our arms. “Student handbook, discipline policy, dress code . . .”

“Oh, they have a dress code here?” I quipped. “What is it, farmer chic?”

Reg shot me a warning look, but Poe agreed.

“I know, right? My kingdom for a Barneys.”

He dove back into his locker. “Extracurriculars, photo release, campus map . . .”

Could have used that yesterday.

“And a little school swag to keep it all in.” Poe topped off each of our stacks with a folder featuring a drone’s-eye view of the school and an enormous football field stretching out behind it, surrounded by tall walls of the same red brick on the school’s exterior, as if the building had grown long, skinny arms and wrapped the football field in a hug. Emblazoned over the image, gold letters proclaimed the school: “Hope High, the beating heart of Nowhere. No more, no less than academic excellence!”