He takes a seat within earshot, and Hope turns away, signaling that our conversation is over—which is okay with me. I’m not even sure I want to talk about this, and for now I have an experiment to conduct. Starting my playlist, I pick up a stick of charcoal, rolling it in my grip until it feels right. Breathing in, I center myself, wondering what I’ll do with it.

The charcoal snaps between my fingers, and I blink as it drops to the floor, a fierce cramp knotting my hand. Gasping, I stretch the muscles, yanking off my headphones, my heart thumping so hard it hurts. Hope is staring at me, her face ashen, and over the ringing in my ears I hear Mr. Strauss ask me a question; but I can’t process any of it.

It happened again.

The light slanting through the high windows has turned golden, and the blank page in front of me has filled itself in the blink of an eye. Nausea twists my stomach into a dangerous shape, and for just a moment, I’m sure I’m about to barf. Hope steps closer, her eyes wide and worried. “Auggie? Are you okay?”

“I’m … I’m fine.” The statement couldn’t be less convincing if I’d delivered it into a video camera while holding up a copy of today’s paper, but I can’t possibly tell the truth. My skin is hot, my lungs ache, and terror squeezes my throat nearly shut. I don’t even know what I’m afraid of, only that I don’t want to look at what I’ve just spent two more missing hours creating.

“You were a demon over here, Auggie!” Mr. Strauss fails to read my mood, stepping up beside me to evaluate my work. “The way you were going through those sticks I was afraid I’d have to bring more. Did you finish your piece?”

“I’m done.” I don’t know if I finished, but I’ll never touch it again.

“This is … wow.” My art teacher widens his eyes, scanning every inch of the elaborate scene on the page. “You’ve got … kind of a theme going, between this and your last. It’s a little macabre, though.” This is an understatement; I apparently just spent two hours drawing a person getting burned at the stake—tied to a post, head lolling back while flames roast their flesh like my marshmallow at Sugar Mama’s. My stomach convulses again as Mr. Strauss asks, “What inspired this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t know, it was just…” Acid scorches my throat. My heart is finally slowing, but my skin tingles all over, as if sunburned. “It was something from a dream.”