We sit quietly for a moment. Micki is dead.

“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Nate looks up and meets my eyes before he continues, “When we were in sixth grade . . . we were at a school dance, and afterwards, both of our parents were late. We were the only two left, and the chaperone went outside. I kissed her. Micki was my first real kiss.”

“I know,” I say just as quietly. “Everyone knew.”

“Oh.”

“Micki was so excited. Nathaniel freaking Bouchet kissed her.” I do smile at the memory now. Thinking about that Micki—the one who was alive—is better. We weren’t friends, but we talked. She was obsessed with her reputation, and it made her almost deferential to me. I didn’t like it.

I’m not sure if Nate has noticed how much Micki has changed since then, and even though she still probably thought Nate was gorgeous, she wouldn’t have kissed him now. I don’t mention any of that. There’s no reason to speak ill of the dead. All I say now is “She was the envy of half the class when you kissed her.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“You were cute, Nate. Girls noticed. Micki had managed something that the others hadn’t yet.”

“I just can’t believe she’s gone.”

“She’s not gone. She’s dead.”

Nate nods.

Quietly, I ask, “Do you think it was an accident?”

“Maybe.”

“She could’ve lost control or fallen asleep, but”—I falter, and my voice has an edge to it now—“I don’t think it was an accident.”

“So you think it’s related to your accident like they said?”

That’s the question. If they’re right, someone really did try to kill me. They did kill Micki. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in Jessup. There are crimes, but mostly mailbox baseball or drunk driving or fights. No one gets murdered. There are shootings and other real crimes in Raleigh and in Durham. There are drugs, murders, and muggings. Jessup is different though. Jessup is safe; it’s like the town the ’50s forgot.

Quietly, I say, “I don’t know for sure. Newscasters always try to tie things together to make a story more sensational.”

The room seems too quiet now, but I’m not sure what to say or do. Someone we know died. Someone might have tried to kill me. Those aren’t thoughts that make conversation flow.

“Do you need to leave?” I ask after several silent minutes.

“Do you want me to?”

“No.” I pause, swallow, and stare down at my hands before saying, “I want you to hold me. It’s probably stupid, and I know I’m safe, but I’m scared.”

He stands and bends toward me, but then stops. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

I think he means my cuts and bruises, but it sounds like he means more than that. Either way, I catch his hand and pull him closer. He kneels beside me on the bed, and I rest my head against his chest as he hugs me carefully.

“Let me tell Nora that I’ll be here, tell her about Micki, and then I’ll stay for a while. Aaron will understand if I’m away for a couple hours.”

Reluctantly, I release him.

He stands and leaves as soon as I whisper, “Okay.”

While he’s gone, my nurse comes in and helps me get out of bed and onto crutches. It’s a very slow process, but it lets me have a few moments of mobility for things like going to the bathroom. I still ache in a lot of places, but I need to be able to do this in order to be released from the hospital. I’ll have a wheelchair, but for a quick trip to the bathroom this is better.

I use the bathroom and brush my teeth. I’m back in the bed, and he hasn’t returned yet—and it feels weird to be waiting in my bed for Nate. I tell myself that since the head of the hospital bed is raised, it’s sort of like sitting on a recliner. Regardless of how it’s shaped right now, it’s still a bed, and Nate is still a boy.

He walks into the room, but he stops beside the edge of the bed. It doesn’t make it any less awkward. I pat the space beside me, and he sits so his feet dangle over the edge. He’s in a half-turned position, like he’s trying not to be all the way in the bed.

“Put your feet up too.”

He is silent, but he does as I suggest.

“If you don’t want to hold me, it’s okay. It’s probably weird. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine.” He moves closer.

I try to reach out to him rather than let him touch me first. The hallucinations seem to come when people touch my bare skin. I can’t handle another episode, not tonight. I’m not fast enough to touch him first though, and his fingertips brush my shoulder. I brace myself, but nothing happens.

When I flinch, he tenses, arm not quite around my shoulders. “What?”

I look at him and see the wariness in his eyes. Rather than lie or admit my hallucinations, I reach up and grab his hand. After I pull his arm more firmly around me, I settle against him and feel safer immediately.

I feel guilty for it. Micki’s dead. I shouldn’t be thinking about how much safer I feel in Nate’s arms.

After a few minutes, I glance at him and find him looking at me curiously. I reach up to touch his face. I watch him tense as I cup his face with my hand, my fingers curling under his jawline. It’s sheer foolishness on my part, but I let my thumb stroke across his cheek.