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the stories. Michael, who was fresh out of high school and trying to get fit enough to pass the tests for the Navy, stopped training and drove out to the mine instead, helping with the search and rescue efforts like a lot of younger guys in Caboose. I rode out with him a few times, and sat in the cab of the truck, which one of the accounted-for miners had brought home to us. I scraped patterns into old cigarette grime on the dashboard. I watched Michael as he stood outside the cab,finishing a cigarette of his own. Watched the lights on the fire trucks flash in his eyes.
    It took the town of Caboose five days to find our people. By then, we already knew. When it was confirmed, the town held five funerals, including Ben’s. They were televised, both locally and on CNN, and afterward, people drifted back into their homes and locked the doors. Still, nobody wanted to take down the bedsheets, and a lot of them hung until the paint washed off and the paisley print faded. By then, most of the sheets were nothing more than rags, impossibly knotted around tree limbs.
    I shake off the memory as the bus pulls into Engine Creek, where the high school kids go. Next stop, on down to Bent Tree, is the middle school, which smells like waffles and glue guns. We are herded into the cafeteria, where we sit until the first bell rings at five of eight. I’m expecting to start in homeroom, but instead, Mr. Powell steps from his office into my path as I go by.
    â€œDo you have a minute, Sasha?”
    As if you can say no to the school guidance counselor. I’ve seen Mr. Powell ever since the day I ended up beside the Dumpster. At first, he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to run out of the school again. Nobody expected the visits with Mr. Powell to go on as long as they have, but apparently I truly do have some type of “issue.” The trouble is, nobody’s ever told me what. I know I get nervous and think of all the bad things that might happen,and that sometimes it gets so overwhelming that I have to hide out in the girls’ bathroom until my stomach stops hurting. I have a class period that I go to in the morning that’s supposed to help me manage what my paperwork calls an “emotional disorder.” Michael always said it was a load of crap; that any kid whose mom had up and left town when she was five and whose dad got killed in the mines when she was eight was bound to have some “friggin’ issues.” But he never asked the school to stop sending me to Mr. Powell, which, deep down, always worried me a little, like maybe Michael thought my “friggin’ issues” were more serious than he let on.
    He’s kind of pointless, Mr. Powell, and so are his sessions, but I don’t mind him much. Sometimes he can get me out of tests or help me with my homework. Seventh-grade algebra is no picnic, so I don’t mind telling my teacher I need to go see the counselor that period.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Seeing Mr. Powell is not a good idea after all. The books on his shelf are always in the same order, so I know he doesn’t read them. I can’t blame him. They have titles like
Depression in Adolescents
and
Our Youth, Our Future
.
    I have a hard time paying attention to the right things in Mr. Powell’s room. I notice that his clock battery has died and we’re stuck at ten after five. I notice that he’s worked his way down through the yellow layer on his Post-it cube and now he’s working on the pink layer.
    I don’t remember what he says.
    I walk into my first class late, clutching a bright pink Post-it that says not to count me tardy. I don’t want to get in trouble, so I don’t say anything or look at anybody. After a while, it’s like I’m not here.
    In between classes, I sneak into the girls’ bathroom. I carry my brown paper lunch sack, which Phyllis filled with egg salad sandwiches. I hide in one of the