I don't want restoration. I want a life. Now. I want to move on. Those were Lily's words. It is ironic that her words should become my own.

But I watch the discs.

Because Mother told me to.

I am halfway through Year Ten of Jenna Fox. I see a pretty girl. Her blond silky hair wags in a ponytail across her back. I have already seen her at diving lessons, another ballet recital, practicing piano, and now I see her running across a field kicking a soccer ball. She is impossibly busy. Her life is so full I can hardly take it in, the complete opposite of the empty-life Jenna I am now.

She kicks the ball to a teammate, who in turn kicks the ball into the goal. A horn sounds. Fists fly into the air along with shouts. Teammates hug and lift one another, and Jenna is in the midst of it all. I hear Father and Mother, unseen behind the camera, cheering and finally calling me over. I run to them. I acknowledge their congratulations. I smile. I toss my head back to call to a friend, and I notice something for the first time. A thin red line just under my chin.

"Pause," I blurt out. "Back. Pause." The disc player follows my commands. I look closer at the still picture. "Zoom." The thin red line becomes what I suspected. A scar.

I walk to my bathroom mirror and tilt my face back. I run my fingertips up the length of my throat. I feel. I search.

There is no scar.

It's been seven years since that video was filmed. Do scars disappear in seven years?

A Glimpse

It's been twenty-five days since I woke up.

Eight days since I went to the mission.

Six days since the new front walkway was laid.

Five days since the plumbing fixtures were replaced.

Three days since I last saw Mr. Bender through my window.

Three days of rain and 4,287 cold beads of water beating against my windowpanes.

I'm good at math after all.

Without friends and a packed schedule to keep me busy, keeping track of time and numbers has become a prime source of entertainment. Watching the collecting rivulets of rain on my window has become a close second.

February in California is cold. Not as cold as Boston. Not nearly. The Net Report says it has dropped to a low of fifty-four degrees. "Oh, my," Lily had mocked. The temperature varies very little. Boredom reigns on all levels. The rain is a welcome change. I have seen the pond swell and the creek surge. I press my palm against the glass, imagining the drops on my skin, imagining where they started out, where they will go, feeling them like a river, rushing, combining, becoming something greater than how they started out.

I spend time on the Net. Mr. Bender said there isn't a thing you can't learn about your neighbors there. Since he is the only neighbor I know, I learn things about him. He is famous. A recluse. There are no pictures of him. Few people have ever met him. Quirky artist. And more.

I type in the name Jenna Fox. I am overwhelmed with the hits. There are thousands. Which one am I? I turn off the Net and realize I don't even know my middle name. It's too much work, trying to become who I am, always having to ask others what I should already know. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling. For hours maybe.

Other thoughts replay, collect, finger out into more thoughts.

Mr. Bender's birds and my untouchable palms . . .

... a watery blood bead on my knee . . .

... a baptism I remember . . .

. . . and visitors.

I had visitors last night. Kara and Locke came to me again. In my deepest sleep, they shook me. Jenna, Jenna. I opened my eyes, but their voices stayed in my ears. I hear their voices even now. Hurry, Jenna. Come. Hurry.

Hurry where?

I see us at the Commons, the memory so vivid I can still smell the freshly mowed grass. We sit at the base of the George Washington Monument, squeezing close for shade, our legs stretched out before us in the long afternoon shadow. We are ditching our Sociology Seminar, and Kara is filling every space with nervous chatter, and when she laughs her black bobbed hair shakes like a skirt at her shoulders. Locke keeps suggesting that we should go. "No!" Kara and I say together. It's too late. Too late. And then the three of us are laughing again, exhilarated, bolstered together in our defiance.

We are not comfortable with it. We are rule followers. This is new to us, and our courage comes from each other. I lean over and kiss Locke. Hard on the lips. We explode in more laughter, and snot spurts from our noses. Kara repeats the kiss, and we are limp with our howling. I ache with the remembering.

I roll from my bed to the floor and lean back against the wall, the way I leaned back that day in Boston. I had friends. Good friends.

A Curve

Mother is at the Netbook when I enter the kitchen. She is talking to Father. I have talked to her little more than I have to Lily in the past few days. She is busy and distant. Lily is in the pantry rattling boxes.

"Morning," Mother says and returns to her conversation with Father.

"Jenna?" Father calls.

"Morning, Father," I say.

"Come here, Angel."

I stand behind Mother and look over her shoulder so he can see me.

"You're looking good," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Any lapses? Pain? Anything unusual?"

"No."

"Good. Good." He repeats himself a third time, and I sense he is filling time.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"No. Not at all. I think your mother wants to have a talk with you, though, so I'll be going. Talk to you tomorrow." He clicks off.

A talk. She frightens me with her control and sureness. I don't want to talk, but I am sure we will. Claire commands and it happens.