“Tell me his vitals.”

I put the phone down and look at my wristwatch, make a count. “His pulse is ninety and his respirations are twenty.”

“Look, Emma,” the doctor says, “I’m an hour away from where you are. I think you need to take him to the ER.”

I know what will happen then. If Jacob is unable to snap out of this, he’ll be a candidate for a 302 involuntary commitment in the hospital psych ward.

After I hang up, I kneel down in front of Jacob. “Baby, just give me a sign. Just show me you’re on the other side.”

Jacob doesn’t even blink.

Wiping my eyes, I head to Theo’s room. He’s barricaded himself inside; I have to bang heavily on the door to be heard over the beat of his music. When he finally opens it, his eyes are red-rimmed and his jaw is set. “I need your help moving him,” I say flatly, and for once Theo doesn’t fight me. Together we try to haul Jacob’s big frame out of his bed and downstairs, into the car. I take his arms; Theo takes his legs. We drag, we push, we shove. By the time we reach the mudroom door, I am bathed in sweat and Theo’s legs are bruised from where he twice stumbled under Jacob’s weight.

“I’ll get the car door,” Theo says, and he runs into the driveway, his socks crunching lightly on the old snow.

Together, we manage to get Jacob to the car. He doesn’t even make a sound when his bare feet touch the icy driveway. We put him into the backseat headfirst, and then I struggle to pull him to a sitting position, practically crawling into his lap to fasten his seat belt. With my head pressed up against Jacob’s heart, I listen for the click of metal to metal.

“Heeeeere’s Johnny.”

The words aren’t his. They’re Jack Nicholson’s, in The Shining. But it’s his voice, his beautiful, tattered, sandpaper voice.

“Jacob?” I cup my hands around his face.

He is not looking at me, but then again, he never looks at me. “Mom,” Jacob says, “my feet are really cold.”

I burst into tears and gather him tight in my arms. “Oh, baby,” I reply, “let’s do something about that.”

This is where I go, when I go:

It’s a room with no windows and no doors, and walls that are thin enough for me to see and hear everything but too thick to break through.

I’m there, but I’m not there.

I am pounding to be let out, but nobody can hear me.

This is where I go, when I go:

To a country where everyone’s face looks different from mine, and the language is the act of not speaking, and noise is everywhere in the air we breathe. I am doing what the Romans do in Rome; I am trying to communicate, but no one has bothered to tell me that these people cannot hear.

This is where I go, when I go:

Somewhere completely, unutterably orange.

This is where I go, when I go:

To the place where my body becomes a piano, full of black keys only-the sharps and the flats, when everyone knows that to play a song other people want to hear, you need some white keys.

This is why I come back:

To find those white keys.

I am not exaggerating when I say that my mother has been staring at me for fifteen minutes. “Shouldn’t you be doing something else?” I finally ask.

“Right. You’re right,” she says, flustered, but she doesn’t actually leave.

“Mom,” I groan. “There has got to be something more fascinating than watching me eat.” There’s watching paint dry, for example. Or watching the laundry cycle.

I know that I’ve given her a scare today, because of what happened this morning. It’s apparent in (a) her inability to leave my side for more than three seconds and (b) her willingness to cook me Ore-Ida Crinkles fries for breakfast. She even forced Theo to take the bus today, instead of being driven into school like usual, because she didn’t want to leave me at home alone and had already decided that I was going to have a sick day.

Frankly, I don’t understand why she’s so upset, when I am the one who went missing.

Frankly, I wonder who Frank was, and why he has an adverb all to himself.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce. “Are you coming, too?”

That, finally, shocks her into moving. “You’re sure you feel all right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come up and check on you in a few minutes, then.”

As soon as she is gone, I put the plate with the French fries on the nightstand. I am going to take a shower; I just have something to do first.

I have my own fuming chamber. It used to be the home of my pet fish, Arlo, before he died. The empty fish tank sits on the top of my dresser now, inverted. Underneath the fish tank is a coffee cup warmer. I used to use a Sterno, but my mother wasn’t very enthusiastic about fire (even one burning at low level) in my room, hence the electric warmer. On top of this I make a little boat out of aluminum foil, and then I squeeze in a small nickel-size dollop of Krazy Glue. I take the mug of cocoa (nondairy, of course) my mother brought me and stick it in the chamber, too-it will provide humidity in the air, even though I won’t want to drink it after the fuming, when white scum is floating around on its surface. Finally, I place inside the drinking glass that has a known sample on it-my test fingerprint-to make sure everything is working.

There’s only one thing left to do, but it makes my stomach clench.

I have to force myself to sort through the clothes I was wearing yesterday to find the item I want to fume, the one I took home from her house. And that of course makes me think of everything else, which means the corners of my mind go black.

I have to actively work to not be sucked into that hole again.

Even through the latex glove I’ve slipped on I can feel how cold the metal is. How cold everything was, last night.

In the shower, I scrub really hard, until my skin is too pink and my eyes are raw from staring into the stream of water. I remember everything.

Even when I don’t want to.

Once, when I was in third grade, a boy made fun of the way I talked. I didn’t understand why his impression of me, with words falling flat as pancakes, would be funny to anyone. I didn’t understand why he kept saying things like Take me to your leader. All I knew was that he followed me around on the playground, and everywhere he went, people would laugh at me. What is your problem? I finally asked, turning around to find him right on my heels.

What is your problem? he parroted.

I’d really prefer it if you could find something else to do, I said.

I’d really prefer it if you could find something else to do.

And before I knew what I was really planning, my fingers closed into a fist and punched him square in the face.

There was blood everywhere. I didn’t like having his blood on my hand. I didn’t like having it on my shirt, which was supposed to be yellow.

The boy, meanwhile, was knocked unconscious, and I was dragged to the principal’s office and suspended for a week.

I don’t like to talk about that day, because it makes me feel like I am full of broken glass.

I never thought I’d see that much blood again on my hands, but I was wrong.

It only takes ten minutes for the cyanoacrylate-the Krazy Glue-to properly work. The monomers in its vapors polymerize in the presence of water, amines, amides, hydroxyl, and carboxylic acid-all of which happen to be found in the oils left by fingerprints. They stick to those oils, creating a latent image, which can be made more visible by dusting with powder. Then, the image can be photographed and resized and compared to the known sample.

There’s a knock on my door. “You okay in there?”

“No, I’m hanging from a closet rod,” I say.

This is not the truth.

“That’s not funny, Jacob,” my mother replies.