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parchment, his hands limp and withering. They could see his lips silently stuttering under the clear plastic oxygen mask.
    â€œHe’s been here twelve days,” Dr. Stuart said.
    In the next bed lay a large-framed African-American youth. He was staring vacantly as well, but his eyes were moving slightly as if seeing frightening visions, and his fingers twitched and trembled. He was muttering nonstop, but there were no understandable words. There was an IV in his arm and there were feeding tubes in his nose, but he was breathing without an oxygen mask.
    â€œThis is Doug Anderson. He’s been here seven days.”
    They turned and faced the bed opposite Doug’s. They’d already seen news photos and Jim Boltz’s senior picture, but they never could have anticipated the crazed creature they now saw before them. He was tied to the bed at both his wrists and ankles. He had needles in both arms and tubes up his nose. His eyes were wide with fright and constantly rolling as if watching demons flutter just above the bed. His head kept jerking and twitching, his fingers blindly groping, and he was whimpering in the language of madness: “. . . over in wainswen badooly gone thump . . . mater raining dig the fleenincrab . . .”
    Sarah looked from Jim to Doug to Tod. “It’s degenerative.”
    Dr. Stuart nodded grimly. “It worsens steadily from day to day. If we can’t reverse it, in ten days, Jim will be in the same condition as Tod.”
    â€œAnd Tod?”
    Dr. Stuart shook his head. “We may not be able to keep him alive. He needs oxygen now. Before long he’ll need a full respirator. After that . . .”
    Elisha leaned over the foot of Jim Boltz’s bed, listening intently, watching Jim’s face. “What’s he saying?”
    Dr. Stuart shook his head. “It’s gibberish. Aimless ravings. The boys aren’t communicative. We can’t talk to them; they can’t talk to us.”
    Elijah asked, “Has he ever mentioned the name Abel Frye?”
    Jim Boltz stiffened and gasped as if shocked with electricity, so suddenly it made them all jump. The rambling gibberish stopped. Jim lay there, eyes locked on one spot above him, his jaw quivering. A weak, trembling sound crossed his lips. “. . . Abel . . . Frye . . .”
    Dr. Stuart hurried to the bedside. “He’s never done this before.”
    Nate hurried to the other side of the bed and took a small digital recorder from his carry bag. “If it’s okay with you?”
    Dr. Stuart nodded.
    Nate pressed the record button and held the recorder close to Jim’s mouth.
    The steady “beep” from the heart monitor beside the bed accelerated as Jim’s pulse raced. He no longer muttered but spoke, so softly they all bent close to hear him. “Abel Frye . . . Abel Frye . . .”
    Dr. Stuart waved a finger in front of Jim’s eyes. The eyes didn’t follow it but remained locked where they were, on some invisible, terrible image.
    â€œThe angel . . . ,” said Jim, tugging at his restraints. “The angel . . . the angel and Abel Frye. No, no, don’t look at me . . .”
    â€œJim?” the doctor prompted.
    â€œHe’s coming . . . he’s coming . . .”
    â€œWho, Jim?”
    â€œThe angel . . . the angel and Abel Frye.”
    â€œThe angel?”
    Jim’s head relaxed. The heart monitor began to slow down. “Barsinolla baker team on the boromoommmm . . .”
    Dr. Stuart straightened, frustration visible all over his face.
    Nate let the recorder run on, recording a minute or two of Jim’s mutterings. As far as anyone could tell, Jim said nothing else intelligible.
    They huddled in the middle of the room, speaking in low tones.
    â€œWho is Abel Frye?” asked Dr. Stuart.
    â€œThe school ghost,” said Nate.
    He looked at them with the shocked and unbelieving expression one might expect. “A ghost and an