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one person least likely to want to help me. If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.
    I lick my lips and grab my bag.
    “What choice do you have?” I mutter to myself.
    Taking one last look at my friends, who are still whispering about where I might be, I weave around the tables and crouch down next to Dale. I wave my hand in front of his face, but his eyes keep scanning his physics textbook, his jaw muscles working as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.
    “Can you see me?” I ask, touching his shoulder.
    Dale inhales sharply. His gaze darts to the side, his eyes skirting the space around me. He shivers, then shakes his head, like he’s trying to brush off an unpleasant memory.
    I lean over so my lips are right next to his ear.
    “Can you hear me?” I whisper.
    He drops his book onto the table with a loud bang and clutches his heart. Everyone in the library looks at him, frowning and rolling their eyes. Matt makes some comment I can’t hear and soon their whole table has dissolved into laughter. The librarian appears, a tight scowl on her face, her nose ring glinting in the harsh overhead light.
    “Zip the lips, guys. Because the next person who talks gets detention shelving books with me for a week,” she says, looking pointedly at my friends. They sober up immediately and turn back to their textbooks.
    I focus on Dale once more, nearly melting with relief that someone can actually hear me. “Dale, I—”
    Dale flinches and leans away from my voice, muttering something that sounds like “. . . crazy . . .” under his breath.
    “What did you say?” I ask, leaning closer.
    The next second, he pushes his chair back from the table with a jerk, and gathers his things with shaking hands.
    “Dale?”
    He makes a beeline for the exit, grappling with his bag’s zipper as he tries to pack it and walk at the same time. I follow him and manage to squeeze through the door before it closes on me.
    “Where are you going?” I call.
    Dale’s black-and-white Converse squeak, the sound amplified by the empty halls. His strides are long and purposeful, and he’s gripping the shoulder strap of his bag like it’s a lifeline.
    “Dale, please stop. I need to talk to you,” I plead.
    We head down the corridor and turn the corner. The florescent lights above us flicker erratically as we speed past the lockers.
    “I know you can hear me,” I say. “It’s me, Nicole.”
    Dale’s face goes ashen and he picks up his pace.
    I let out a little scream. “Damn it, Dale. STOP! Please!”
    His back tenses like he’s preparing for a blow and he slows a little, but he doesn’t stop walking.
    “Look, I know this sounds crazy.” I fall into step with him. “And I know you hate me—and you have every reason to. I was horrible to you, and I’ve regretted it ever since. But I need your help. For some reason, you’re the only one who can hear me.”
    Dale just shakes his head and I wish—not for the first time—that I had apologized months ago, when it would have felt genuine, not when I need something from him.
    Desperation floods my system as he strides around the next corner. I stop in my tracks, on the verge of tears.
    As I stand there in the hallway, the lights continuing to flicker like some cheap horror movie effect, the weight of my situation presses down on me. I’m only sixteen years old. My life can’t end now, not before I’ve had a chance to get out of this place and make something of myself. To live a life I might actually want.
    It’s not supposed to be over. I’m supposed to be sitting in a library right now, pretending not to care about schoolwork and snickering with Amber about the horrendous pink of Ms. Spitz’s hair, not in the woods, wondering if anyone is going to save to me—or fighting the tiny voice in my head that whispers, “Maybe you don’t deserve to be saved.”
    Finally, the dam breaks. I cry quietly at first, then loud heaving sobs. Tears run down my cheeks, but I know they’re