The afternoon I lost time, I didn’t just black out; I went into a trance, or something, and sketched a detailed scene that felt familiar, even if I couldn’t explain why. It was some kind of psychic phenomenon, my dreams taking over, and I need to know what else is hiding in my subconscious and looking for a way out. I want to draw something else to see if it will happen again.

The art room is empty when I arrive, the lights off, and Hope’s dookie sculpture sits abandoned and draped in cloth—and, let’s be honest, it’s never looked better. Fresh watercolors dry on a clothesline strung beneath the ceiling, landscapes and still lifes in cheery colors; and in a corner, facing the wall, stands the easel I was using last Wednesday.

I move toward it, and my heart flutters. If I see that sketch again, the angry crowd and the women in black, will it return my lost memories? Do I want it to? Because there’s always a chance that this little plan will unlock something even worse than a two-hour blackout; that I might end up losing an entire day, or somehow conjuring forth whatever apocalyptic nonsense Jude the Vampire was talking about.

Changing my mind, I turn to leave—and smash directly into Mr. Strauss, who was standing right behind me. My heart jumps so high it tickles my sinus cavity, and I let out a little yelp. “Sorry! Sorry, I thought I was alone.”

“You were, until I got here.” Mr. Strauss grins at his own joke. Under his nerdy sweater-vest and shapeless jeans, he must be built like a brick wall, because I swear I have a bruise from running into him just now. “Sorry if I surprised you.”

“I … I wanted to keep working with the charcoals today,” I manage to spit out as he steps past me, marching straight to the easel in the corner. “I thought, um—”

“You should.” Casually, Mr. Strauss swings the easel around. It’s empty—of course it is; it’s been almost a week since I did that sketch, and who knows how many times that easel has been used since. Earnestly, my teacher adds, “You have a remarkable talent, Auggie, and you should absolutely keep developing it. Have you ever considered applying to a program like SAIC?”

Just like that, I forget nearly everything that happened before his last sentence. The School of the Art Institute of Chicago is a really big deal. “Do you think…”

I can’t finish, but he doesn’t need me to. “I know you’ve got another year left, and maybe you’re not ready to decide what you want to do when you graduate, but you should give some thought to a four-year art and design school. You’ve got a gift, and an academic environment would provide an opportunity to grow your skills and explore other media.”