“Okay,” she said with a serious face. “Orange is your color, okay?”

Like he was supposed to know what that meant.

“Yeah, okay, orange is my color.”

“Don’t forget,” she half whispered.

How old had they been? He couldn’t remember. He flipped back several pages, until he saw orange pen.

“Sun.” Son. Orange was his color. He felt an awful welling of emotions. Regret. Guilt. Longing. He hung his head between his knees and cried. God, how he missed her.

For the next hour, he went back through the novel and read all the entries he could find written in orange ink. Most were the thoughts of a little girl.

Sun, do you like grape juice? I do.

Sun, I wish everyone would go home but you.

Sun, teach me to burp.

They went on like that. Some funny. Some wistful. But then, buried in the middle of the book, he found a note different from the others addressed to him—longer and in a more mature handwriting.

Sun, the funeral was today. I’m so sorry. I hope you’re okay. They wouldn’t let me go. I wanted to be there for you. Are we still friends? I understand if we can’t be but I miss you. (389)

With something approaching dread, he flipped forward to page 389. The margins were blank except for a single note that had been written using two different orange pens, and if he wasn’t mistaken, some years apart. The first half read:

Sun, sorry I ruined the game. Don’t be mad at me?

Then, in the other pen, written God-knows-how-much later:

I should have told you after the game. I should have told you a hundred times. I was so angry with you for not seeing. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you now. There’s a lake here. It’s not as pretty as Pamsrest, but we could go sit down by the water, and I could tell you everything. I want that more than anything. I wish you hadn’t gone away. I hope you won’t blame me.

He snapped the book shut. Blame her for what? A memory swam up from the depths, its hideous, reptilian spine almost breaking the surface before it swam powerfully away from him. He closed his eyes, afraid to lure it back, but knowing he must.

The game. What about it? Duke had taken him to a hundred games. Had Bear gone to one with them? Maybe? He had a hazy memory; the only thing he remembered was Bear being a huge brat the whole day, which wasn’t like her at all. No, there was more. The memory surfaced, eyes pitiless and vast. They stared into him, daring him to blink.