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Andrew was struggling with his buttons, fumble-fingered, shaky with fever. "Aren't you going to help me?"

    I'd gone too far to turn back. Swallowing my fear, I pulled off my pajamas and helped Andrew out of his nightshirt. He was so weak I had to poke his arms into the pajama sleeves, button the front, and guide his legs into the pants. Carefully, I eased him into bed and covered him with the quilt.
    "Your name," he whispered. "I don't know your name."
    "It's the same as yours, only they call me Drew for short."
    "My marbles, my face, my name—you stole everything, didn't you?" Andrew lay back and closed his eyes. His breathing rasped, his chest rattled. "Well, don't steal my life too, Drew. For the Lord's sake, save me."
    Frightened by the change in him, I ran across the hall and rapped on my aunt's door. "Aunt Blythe, Aunt Blythe, come quick. I don't feel well."
    In a voice fuzzy with sleep, she said, "Just a minute, Drew, I'll be right there."
    Back in my room, I leaned over Andrew. His eyes were still closed, and he was struggling to breathe. "Don't die," I begged him, "hang on, Andrew, she's coming, she'll get a doctor."
    "Hannah," he murmured, "fetch Hannah."
    Turning away from Andrew, I shouted, "Hurry, Aunt Blythe, please hurry!"
    The moment her door opened, I crept up the steps to the attic and hid in the shadows. In the room below, Aunt Blythe said, "What's wrong, Drew?"
    Andrew moaned.
    "Heavens," Aunt Blythe cried, "you're burning with fever."
    As she spoke, the air around me darkened and thickened. The floor tilted and began to spin round and round, faster and faster. To keep from falling, I reached out and grabbed at things, but they whirled away from me as if they had no substance. Which way was up? Which way down? The world was tumbling and so was I.

    My ears roared, my head ached, my heart pounded, I couldn't get my breath. Dying — I was dying of diphtheria. Andrew had tricked me, he'd traded my life for his. Too dizzy to stand, I plunged into a terrible whirling blackness.

Chapter 7
    When I opened my eyes everything was still. The gray light of early morning silvered, the bare floor. far away, a train whistle blew, a sad, lonely sound

    Slowly, I got to my feet What was I doing in the attic? Dreams and strange ideas floated through my head, but 1 was too contused to think straight. Bed, I ought to be in bed
    Convinced I was walking in my sleep, I tiptoed to the top of the stairs and inched my way down. When I woke up I'd be sate in my own room. Everything would be fine.
    I eased the attic door open. There was my bed waiting for me, quilt flung back, pillows askew. All I had to do was get in and pull the covers up. I'd be safe.
    I took one step into the room and stopped dead. Hannah was sleeping in the rocking chair - just where Andrew said she d be. I hadn't dreamed, hadn't walked in my sleep. Wide awake, I was wearing Andrews nightshirt, standing in his room, staring at his sister.
    Hoping to escape before the Tylers awoke, I crept back up the steps, but a quick look told me it wasn't the attic I'd explored with Aunt Blythe—there was no clutter, no broken appliances, no junk, just a few trunks and crates. I gripped a rafter tightly, closed my eyes, and concentrated all my energy on Andrew. "Please," I whispered, "please come back. Don't leave me here."

    Nothing happened. Outside, birds cheeped softly. The sky was lightening, turning pink. At any moment, Hannah would open her eyes and see the empty bed. What would she think? What would she do?
    Heart pounding, I sneaked down the stairs to the bedroom. Hannah was still asleep. I tiptoed past her, slid into bed, and lay motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, afraid the slightest noise would wake her.
    Without turning my head, I gazed around the room, taking in as much as I could. The furniture, including the bed, was the same, but flowered paper covered the walls, a pattern of tiny blue roses repeated endlessly against a beige background. White