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tiny words painted on each nail. Her hair was piled high on her head and it took all my strength not to reach over and pull out the contraption that held it all there, so it would tumble around her shoulders in a shimmering waterfall of curls.
    Her T-shirt had the same tiny word “ laugh ”, which was now joined by two other words, “ and the …”
    “Is that a time released T-shirt?” I asked, and was treated to a Mona Lisa smirk.
    She pointed her foot and wiggled her toes. “Look.”
    I leaned in closer and read the message on her toenails. “… world laughs with you. Weep, and you weep alone .”
    “Is that your motto?”
    “Yep,” she said, already bent over a box of found material, from which we were all expected, under the reptile gaze of Mr. Wallace, to create a self-portrait that was both breathtakingly original and meaningful.
    “It’s mine, too.”
    I stared miserably out the window, pondering the exact number of crows that perched on the telephone pole, trying not to think that my self-portrait should be a rusting old car at the bottom of the Gorge.
    By the time I’d snapped out of my reverie, Susannah had constructed a figure with a protruding rib cage and outstretched arms entirely from tiny bits of windshield glass and a coat hanger.
    “Is that a portrait of me?” I asked, smiling. “You know, Jeremy Glass?”
    Susannah slanted her head, dead serious. “You’re a real kidder, aren’t you? Where’s yours?”
    “I’m still thinking.” I said, actually wondering why this sunshiny girl was making a portrait of herself with broken glass. “I guess I’ll do a running shoe. That’s what I am. A runner.”
    She smiled, then said, “Aren’t we all?” Returning to her efforts, so deeply engrossed in her work that she didn’t even notice when the bell rang.
    When I think of Susannah, this is how I like to see her—deep in concentration, her brow furrowed. I wonder if art for her is like running is for me, an escape from the dark things that always threaten to black out the sun.
    Now
    The sharp edge of my panic dulls. I’m ready to face Susannah’s treasure hunt now.
    I hobble unsteadily to the back door and peer out. A black void looms beyond the three steps from the stoop to the driveway and the oak tree beyond. Navigating the steps with crutches is a skill I’ve yet to master. Doing so with a half-bottle of vodka sloshing through my veins is a whole other level of challenge.
    But I have to know if there really is a message in the animation, or if Susannah is just playing with me. Why would she send me animations and not get in touch? Anger flares unexpectedly.
    She’s abandoned me in my time of need.
    Where the hell is she? I have to know.
    One precarious step, two steps, three. My sneaker touches asphalt a few seconds before the rubber crutch tips catch up with it. I’m still standing.
    I pause, mustering the courage to cross the dark driveway to the old oak tree that was so clearly the one in the animation. I imagine the air rushing by my face as I run, muscles pumping as the pavement purrs beneath my rubber soles. The ground slants. It’s the longest few yards I’ve ever faced. Longer than the final leg of the marathon I’d run last summer, gripped by fever and violent stomach cramps.
    Across the dark gulf of pavement, I reach the tree. My tree. I wonder if the animation is a map to guide me here. But why?
    I’m at the base of the tree, moonlight falling on its tangled roots. The night wind nips at my T-shirt and flaps my pajama pants. Ragged clouds frame the moon’s taunting smile. A few raindrops fall. My shattered leg registers nothing, only the steady ache from within the crushed bone, pounding its ominous drumbeat.
    The vodka is wearing off and I’m hit by a wave of exhaustion. If I could run, I’d sprint back into the house and crawl under the covers. But coming out here is a commitment. Now I have to follow through.
    I glance up to the second-floor windows. Dad’s