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I stared at my gray, muddy hand, caked with drying clay. The clay on the potter’s wheel
     held the perfect imprint of a hand, like I had just flattened whatever I was working on. I looked at it more closely. The
     hand wasn’t mine, it was too small. It was a girl’s.
    It was hers.
    I looked under my nails, where I could see the clay I had clawed from her wrist.
    “Ethan, you could at least try to make somethin’.” Mrs. Abernathy put her hand on my shoulder, and I jumped. Outside the classroom
     window, I heard the rumble of thunder.
    “But Mrs. Abernathy, I think Ethan’s soul is communicatin’ with him.” Savannah giggled, leaning over to get a good look. “I
     think it’s tellin’ you to get a manicure, Ethan.”
    The girls around me started to laugh. I mashed the handprint with my fist, turning it back into a lump of gray nothing. I
     stood up, wiping my hands on my jeans as the bell rang. I grabbed my backpack and sprinted out of the room, slipping in my
     wet high-tops when I turned the corner and almost tripping over my untied laces as I ran down the two flights of stairs that
     stood between the music room and me. I had to know if I had imagined it.
    I pushed open the double doors of the music room with both hands. The stage was empty. The class was filing past me. I was
     going the wrong way, heading downstream when everyone else was going up. I took a deep breath, but knew what I would smell
     before I smelled it.
    Lemons and rosemary.
    Down on the stage, Miss Spider was picking up sheet music, scattered along the folding chairs she used for the sorry Jackson
     orchestra. I called down to her, “Excuse me, ma’am. Who was just playing that—that song?”
    She smiled in my direction. “We have a wonderful new addition to our strings section. A viola. She’s just moved into town—”
    No. It couldn’t be. Not her.
    I turned and ran before she could say the name.

    When the eighth-period bell rang, Link was waiting for me in front of the locker room. He raked his hand through his spiky
     hair and straightened out his faded Black Sabbath T-shirt.
    “Link. I need your keys, man.”
    “What about practice?”
    “I can’t make it. There’s something I’ve gotta do.”
    “Dude, what are you talkin’ about?”
    “I just need your keys.” I had to get out of there. I was having the dreams, hearing the song, and now blacking out in the
     middle of class, if that’s even what you’d call it. I didn’t know what was going on with me, but I knew it was bad.
    If my mom was still alive, I probably would’ve told her everything. She was like that, I could tell her anything. But she
     was gone, and my dad was holed up in his study all the time, and Amma would be sprinkling salt all over my room for a month
     if I told her.
    I was on my own.
    Link held out his keys. “Coach is gonna kill you.”
    “I know.”
    “And Amma’s gonna find out.”
    “I know.”
    “And she’s gonna kick your butt all the way to the County Line.” His hand wavered as I grabbed the keys. “Don’t be stupid.”
    I turned and bolted. Too late.

9.11
Collision
    B y the time I got to the car, I was soaking wet. The storm had been building all week. There was a weather advisory on every
     radio station I could get any reception from, which wasn’t saying much considering the Beater only got three stations, all
     AM. The clouds were totally black, and since it was hurricane season, that wasn’t something to be taken lightly. But it didn’t
     matter. I needed to clear my head and figure out what was going on, even if I had no idea where I was going.
    I had to turn on the headlights to even drive out of the parking lot. I couldn’t see more than three feet in front of the
     car. It wasn’t a day to be driving. Lightning sliced through the dark sky ahead of me. I counted, as Amma had taught me years
     ago—one, two, three. Thunder cracked, which meant the storm wasn’t far off—three miles according to Amma’s