“This is … Auggie, this is incredible work.” Mr. Strauss sounds awed, his fingers tracing the motion of the crowd. “The composition is pretty straightforward, but I can’t believe how much emotion you’ve captured with so few details! Even without expressions, you can sense the rage coming off these people.” The scent of rotten eggs tickles my nose, and I sneeze as my art teacher points to a group of figures in the center of the picture. Rendered in heavily layered black, it looks like three women in veils and old-fashioned dresses. “Who are they?”

“I … I don’t know,” I croak.

“Why did you make them the focal point of the image while everyone in the crowd is looking back at the viewer?” He persists. “What are they watching? Why are they angry?”

Staring at the crowd, I feel lost, because I have no idea why. I have no answers to any of his questions. Helpless, I repeat myself. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Strauss studies the sketch for another moment. “Do you mind leaving it here, so I can take some pictures? You should have high-quality digitals of your work when you’re applying to art programs next year.”

“Yeah, sure.” I’m glad for him to keep it, this ghost sketch that apparently just stole two hours of my life. The horrible dreams that kept me awake last night crash through my brain again—angry mobs, firing squads, faceless executioners. I’m so flustered that it takes me three tries to get my headphones back into my bag. “I should get going. My parents will freak if I’m not home before dark.”

Hope is watching me, looking frightened and concerned. “Auggie? Are you—”

“See you tomorrow!” The words are still ringing in the air when I burst through the door, running for the exit like I’m trying to escape from something.

But what?

My phone confirms that it’s two hours later than when I walked into the art room after the final bell. Whatever just happened really happened, and my stomach cramps in a very unfortunate, borderline-diarrhea type of way. Shoving through the side exit to the parking lot, I trot past the overhang and into the waning sunlight, gulping down great helpings of crisp air.

“Everything okay?”

Confused and wild, I spin back around to see a guy I don’t know leaning against the wall beside the door, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His dark eyes study me in a way that makes me feel comfortable and uncomfortable at once, and I clear my throat. “I—yeah. I’m okay. I just felt … sick for a second. It’s over now.”

“Cool.” The boy points to his cigarette. “You don’t happen to have a light, do you?”