“So . . . .”

He dragged the word out awkwardly. He sounded cautious now, maybe even afraid to continue. From the tone of his voice, it seemed as though he wanted to ask me something but wasn’t sure how to go about it. I met his eyes and nodded in encouragement.

“Whatever you want to say, Joshua, just say it.”

He cleared his throat and then blurted out the question. “How long have you been dead?”

I frowned, trying to form an explanation that wasn’t scary. “I’m not sure about that one, either. A while, I think. There was a lot of aimless wandering for an awfully long time. I’ve found it pretty hard to keep track. I’d have to guess it’s been . . . years? At the very least.”

Letting out a low whistle, Joshua muttered the word “years” under his breath.

“At the very least,” I repeated.

“And you really can’t remember anything?” He sounded skeptical again.

“Nope. Well, nothing but my name.”

“Not where you grew up? Not who you parents were?”

“No.”

My voice cracked a little with that answer. I hadn’t thought about that until now—the fact that I’d probably had a family, once. A family I’d loved, or one I didn’t even want to remember? Maybe, like the information on my tombstone, the details of my former home life were better left a mystery?

Luckily, Joshua didn’t seem to notice anything unusual in my response, because his questions kept coming. And soon they drew me out of my dark thoughts with surprising ease.

We went on like that for a while, him as interviewer and me as interviewee. Some of his questions were serious and sad (did I remember my childhood home), and some were pleasantly inane (did I ever own a pet iguana, because his sister did, for about two weeks before their parents made her get rid of it). My response to every question was inevitably negative, mostly because I didn’t remember the answer.

But strangely, each question made me less depressed about my lack of memory. I began to feel as if I said the word “no,” not because I’d lived the sad life of the waking dead, but as part of some verbal game I was playing with him; as if I would only provide him a “yes” when he asked the right question.

With each question my smile began to grow. Before long Joshua’s face reflected mine, as if my enthusiasm for this game was infectious.

“Do you remember which flavor ice cream you liked best?”

“No.” I laughed. “I don’t remember if I even liked ice cream.”

He prepped for his next question by frowning and resting his chin on one fist for dramatic effect. “Do you remember your school mascot?”

“Nope. I don’t remember school at all. So there is something positive about being dead, right?”

He started to chuckle, then abruptly jerked upright as though he’d been pinched. Checking his watch, he swore under his breath. He jumped off the park bench and began to run toward the parking lot. If I weren’t so confused by his sudden behavior, I might have laughed when he skidded to a stop and spun around to face me again, kicking up a dramatic cloud of red dirt.

“Come on,” he yelled, and turned to run back to his father’s car. Without thinking, I obeyed the order and ran after him.

As he fumbled to unlock the driver’s side door, I cleared my throat.

“Um, Joshua? What’s wrong?”

“We’re going to be late.”

“For what?”

He ignored my question. “Lunch is over in about ten minutes.”

“And?” I asked, growing a little frustrated with the mystery.

“And we’re going to have to break about forty-seven traffic laws to get there on time.”

“To get where?” I threw my hands in the air, completely baffled.

“Class.”

The word was muffled as he ducked into the driver’s seat. Within seconds he threw open the passenger side door in front of me and leaned out.

“Come on,” he repeated.

“Come . . . to school? With you?”

“Of course.”

The idea made me almost rock back on my heels in shock. I wanted to argue the logic of this with him, especially the possibility of going anywhere in public together. But the urgency in his expression told me he wouldn’t be open to debate. So I too spun around rapidly—facing him, then the familiar safety of the woods, then him again.

“No time to think, Amelia. Just get in.”

“But,” I protested weakly, “I don’t even remember how to ride in a car!”

He grinned and patted the seat.

“It’s like riding a bike, I promise.”

“I don’t remember how to do that, either,” I grumbled, but I slipped into the passenger seat and let him lean over to pull the door shut beside me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Chapter

Eight

Death may have stolen my old memories of riding in a car, but it certainly couldn’t take my new ones. The farther Joshua drove, the more my initial fear of the ride, and the events to follow it, began to melt away.

As Joshua’s borrowed car flew along the steep, curved roads outside the park, I shifted forward in my seat until I’d nearly pressed myself against the dashboard. I watched the dense green woods rush by us in a panorama outside the windshield.

Although I was unable to experience the physical sensation of sitting in the car, I didn’t feel the least bit sad about this. I felt untethered, and impossibly fast—as though I were flying. I gripped the edge of the seat beneath me, and, incredibly, the sensation of its rough leather scraped against my fingertips.

“Hey, Amelia?”

Joshua’s worried voice broke into my thoughts, and the feel of the leather instantly disappeared.

“Yeah?” However much I enjoyed looking at him, I could barely tear my eyes away from the road long enough to give him a sidelong glance.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything, but would you please scoot back? The way you’re sitting, you’re putting a lot faith in my driving.”

I laughed. “Well, it’s not like I can fly through your windshield.”

From my peripheral vision, I saw him frown deeply. The image of his car floating to the bottom of the river flashed into my mind. I shook my head at my own stupidity.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Bad joke.”

“It’s okay,” he answered with a faint smile. “But . . . all the same, you’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” I repeated, and I slid back into the seat.

I kept my eyes glued to the blurred scenery outside the windows. Still, I itched to lean forward again, so I grabbed the seat to hold myself in place and tried in vain to revive the sensation of leather against my skin.

Eventually, the woods gave way to a small town. The road wound through a sort of main street dotted with small buildings and scattered pines. A painted wooden sign along the roadside welcomed us to Wilburton, Oklahoma!

The town reminded me of a vaguely familiar photograph, one that I’d seen a long time ago but couldn’t place now. Had I passed through this particular town in my death? I’d never really taken much note of the places where I’d wandered. I couldn’t be sure, and the uncertain familiarity made me squirm in my seat.

Too soon, Joshua slowed to a few miles per hour. Next he pulled onto a side road, one lined more heavily with pines. When the trees thinned, a set of low buildings appeared. As Joshua pulled into a parking lot, I could see a few students milling around or making their way into the corridors between the buildings.

“Made it.” Joshua sighed in relief. He parked the car, then unbuckled his seat belt and reached into the backseat to scavenge for his schoolbag.

I remained focused on the redbrick buildings in front of us. I took in the sight of the flat white roofs, the dark purple benches on the lawn, the faded metal signed that proclaimed GO DIGGERS! in block letters. Something about the buildings itched at me—something I couldn’t put my finger on. . . .