“Lydia—”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not Lydia, and I just proved it.”

“Okay.” The counselor nodded and flipped a page in her file. “It does say here that you—that Lydia—has brown eyes, and I remember that y—that she rarely spoke. So let’s table the issue of your identity until someone with more information at hand can sort that out. For now, let’s talk about the issue that brought you here. The report from the emergency room says your school nurse sedated you because you were ‘inconsolable and incomprehensible.’ Do you remember that?”

“No.” Em started pacing again, and I caught just a glimpse of her as she walked away, still wearing the jeans and blouse she’d had on that morning when we’d left for school. Her shoes were the same, too, except that now her sneakers were missing their laces, as per Lakeside policy. That way the residents can’t string a bunch of shoelaces together and try to hang themselves. Or one another.

“The last thing I remember is getting sleepy in third period, then there’s nothing until I woke up in the E.R. And honestly, I kinda wish I was still asleep, ’cause this shit is the stuff of nightmares.” Em paused, and though I couldn’t see her face, I realized what she must be thinking just a second before she confirmed it. “Sabine, is this you?” Emma shouted, her arms thrown out at her sides. “Are you doing this? Cut it out, or I swear I will kill you!”

That time I did groan, but no one heard me. That one outburst from Em had undone all the progress she’d made in convincing the counselor that she was neither Lydia nor crazy.

“Who’s Sabine?” The counselor pulled out the desk chair and sat, and suddenly I had a clear view of Emma. And as soon as I saw her, I realized that the feisty, fast-thinking Em who’d just tried to talk her way out of the mental ward was gone. This Em looked...distracted. Distraught.

“She’s a friend, kind of.” Em stared at the window, showing me her profile, and her hand slid into her hair and pulled on it, a gesture I’d never seen her use, and that she didn’t even seem aware of. “But only because she’d be so much scarier as an enemy. I need to get out of here. You have to let me out of here now!”

I was so distracted by how upset she was suddenly that it took me a second to realize what she’d said. She’d gotten sleepy in third period, and she didn’t remember anything that had happened after that. Had she fallen asleep? Had she been possessed when she’d freaked out at school?

“So, you don’t remember the ambulance? Or—”

“I don’t remember any of it, okay?” Em’s hand tightened around a handful of her hair and pulled so hard I winced. I had to get her out of there, but Icouldn’t do anything until the counselor left. “I already told you that. I don’t know anything except that I’m not supposed to be here, so just shut the hell up!”

A high-pitched whining sound came from the room next door, and I retraced my steps until I could see the girl sitting on her bed, now rocking back and forth, clutching two handfuls of her own hair. Just like Emma.

And that’s when I understood. Em was syphoning this girl’s...whatever she was feeling too much of. Fear, maybe. Or panic. Or massive discomfort with...everything?

“This report says you didn’t know who you are,” the counselor continued. “You told your teacher you weren’t—” she glanced at the papers again “—Emily Cavanaugh. And now you’re telling us that you’re not Lydia. Would it be accurate to say that you’re still not sure who you are?”

“Do any of us really know who we are?” Em asked as I stepped into her doorway, and this time she was facing me. I didn’t realize she could see me—evidently I wanted her to—until her gaze focused on me. Her eyes widened, and she gasped out loud.

“Sorry!” I said, my voice audible to only her. “Pretend you don’t see me.” But, of course, it was too late for that. My interruption had made her look even crazier.

The counselor twisted and looked right through me, then turned back to Emma. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Em shrugged, visibly struggling to keep her focus on the counselor. She let go of her hair, obviously surprised to find herself clutching it, and closed her eyes. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”

The counselor started to scribble something on her file, and Em’s eyes flew open. “Don’t write that down! I’m not seeing things. I said I  thought I saw something, but I was wrong. I’m not crazy.” She tugged on the hem of her shirt, one of mine, which was a little baggy on her.

“Of course you’re not.” The counselor laid her hand across the file in her lap, legs crossed in her pencil skirt, her pen tucked beneath one finger. “‘Crazy’ isn’t a diagnosis.”

“No, I mean I’m not...” Em exhaled, and her shoulders slumped. I motioned for her to sit on the low, narrow bed, hoping that would make her look calmer, and she did. “Never mind.”

The counselor was quiet for a minute, watching Emma. Waiting to see if she’d say anything else. Then, when nothing else came, she tucked a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. “Do you feel like seeing your family now? Your parents are eager to see you.”

Crap. She still thought Em was Lydia. Perhaps an even crazier version of the Lydia who’d escaped.