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as hard as I could and tried to send all the love I had into her. That was the first time I ever tried to heal anybody.
    Nothing. And then her fingers moved to grasp mine, holding, holding, holding me tightly, too tightly. I knew then that she wasn’t really like other mothers. Something was going on. I just didn’t know what.
    “Aimee?” Her voice was wind-whisper sweet. “Did you come to get me? To make sure he didn’t get me?”
    “Uh-huh,” I said, because I figured I did.
    She lifted me in her arms. “Let’s carry each other home.”
    When I looked back in the river the man was gone, disappeared under the surface.
    That was the only time any of my visions did any good. Just that once. That one time I actually saved her.

• 4 •
    ALAN
     
    I try to focus on Act II of Macbeth , but all I can think about is Aimee Avery. My English teacher, Mrs. Carey, is trying her best to make Shakespeare interesting, and I have to admit that what I’ve read is okay, for Shakespeare. I like the witches and the conspiracy, but Shakespeare requires a lot of work, a lot of mental focus, and right now I just don’t have it. Not for Bill Shakespeare, anyway.
    Aimee said she’d see me later. It’s not like it’s a date or anything. It wasn’t even really saying she wouldn’t avoid me later. It was just a common parting. Not a promise. Shakespeare would have written it as “Fare thee well” or something like that.
    She has a boyfriend. Blake. A bell rings and I move on to my art class. Instead of reading, I’m holding a paint brush and staring at a piece of canvas. There’s red paint on my brush and it makes me think of the red paint on Aimee’s hand. She’s an artist. Is she good? She has red hair.
    … Red …
    The damn dream. It hasn’t gone away. Maybe because I know now that the girl is Aimee. Usually, however, when a dream lingers like this one has—when Onawa is in the dream—it’s more than just a mental picture show.
    My hand is moving. I let it go. I don’t really think about what I’m doing. It’s like I’m on autopilot. I paint and think, keeping the two things separate. I don’t paint often. I’m not very good at it, but I do like it. I have incredible images in my head, but my hands aren’t very good translators.
    A Cheeto that looks like Marilyn Monroe? I smile at that memory. Aimee’s gramps and her little brother sound pretty cool. Who the hell would bid $500 for a Cheeto?
    I freeze, my paintbrush poised over my one-foot canvas square. I’ve painted my vision. There is Aimee looking back at me, her red hair flying around her face, her green eyes wide, and her mouth open. Behind her are the green eyes of Onawa, and surrounding them both is blackness filled with swirling shapes. This is crazy. Probably nobody else would see the shapes in the black paint. Nobody would realize who I’d painted. Would they?
    “Alan, that’s very nice.”
    Oh crap. Mr. Burnham stands behind me, his hand on his chin, his eyes fixed on my handiwork. He’s probably in his late twenties, with short black hair gelled to stand up over his forehead. He has a tribal tattoo on his left wrist, which makes me think he’s probably the coolest teacher in this school. Still, I just want him to go away.
    “You realize the bell rang a few minutes ago, right?” he asks.
    No wonder it’s so quiet. I look around. There are no students in the art room.
    “I guess I didn’t hear it,” I say.
    “You were pretty intense there. I can write you a note to your next teacher, but you need to put this away. I’ll clean your brushes for you today,” he says, and now I’m sure he’s the coolest. “Tell me, are these spirits swirled in the black of the underworld?”
    “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.
    “And the green eyes?”
    “Cougar.”
    “Personal totem?”
    I’m not sure what to say. I look at his tattoo. Those things are so generic. Every poser who wants to feel primitive gets one. It doesn’t mean anything. “You know