For the longest time I stayed in that position, bent over and staring at the ground. My hair hung in thick curtains on either side of my face, blocking my view of everything but the dry grass and patches of red dirt beneath me.

Then I turned my head only a fraction of an inch to the right. Through my hair I could just make out my surroundings.

The field. The trees. The headstones.

I sat back on my bare heels and wrapped my arms around my chest. Only after providing myself that feeble protection did I shake my hair back so I could see the scene more fully.

I’d had another nightmare, one far worse than any of the others.

It began normally enough: the flailing, the coughing, the general sense of desperation. Soon, though, after I’d quieted from the initial shock of the water, I could hear the strange voices again, the raucous ones that reminded me so much of Eli’s netherworld. But this time, in addition to the voices, I heard laughter. Angry, violent laughter, coming from what sounded like a party.

When I looked up to find its source, I saw them: a crowd of figures, standing high above me on High Bridge. Watching me struggle. Before I could make out their faces, I plunged once and finally under the water. Only then did I wake in this graveyard.

Who were the people on the bridge? And why were they watching me with such obvious joy?

These were questions I really couldn’t answer. And, of course, they brought up even more questions concerning why I could see them in the first place. Maybe I heard and saw them because I’d become more aware lately? Or perhaps it was like Joshua said: I’d repressed most of my memories about my death and now they were returning in vague but painful detail.

Thanks, nightmares, I thought wryly, for being so consistently fun.

This consistency, of course, led to another thought. A pattern seemed to have emerged in my nightmares, particularly with the way they began. Something to do with my emotional state maybe. After all, the last one began when Eli upset me the night he told me I had no choice but to join him in the darkness. Then this nightmare started with the touch of Joshua’s lips.

No, I thought with a shake of my head. Not at the moment he first kissed me. But instead, at the moment I’d thought I might explode—from misery at the loss of my father and my mother’s forced isolation; from desire, sparked by the feel of Joshua’s lips against mine.

At the thought of Joshua’s lips, I pushed against the grass and jumped up. I could think about the nightmares later; right now I had more important problems to solve. Such as the fact that a day had passed since our kiss, probably leaving Joshua with more than a few questions about my whereabouts. Without another glance at this terrible place, I broke into a sprint.

Possibly a half hour later—I wasn’t sure—I skidded to a stop in the Wilburton High School parking lot. I panted, not from the effort of the run, but from fear that I’d arrived too late to find him.

Luckily, one glance at the back lawn of the school let me know I wasn’t too late. All across the lawn, students gathered in little clusters over their lunches, laughing and basking in the sun. I hurried past them, studying each of their faces as I walked.

Not seeing the one face I wanted, I had no choice but to wait outside the cafeteria door, tapping my foot and fidgeting until someone finally pushed the door open. I took one cursory glance at the students coming out of it and, dismissing them, circled around to squeeze inside before the door slammed shut. Once inside the cafeteria, I scanned the room impatiently and then began to walk forward.

I was searching the tables so intently, I didn’t see him until I’d almost smacked right into his chest. We both skidded to a stop before impact, less than an inch from each other.

A brief wave of real scent—sweet, musky, warm—washed over me and then disappeared. I raised my head, ever so slowly, until I met his gaze.

I’d found Joshua.

I felt a swell of joy. Joshua, however, appeared as though he didn’t share my feelings. In fact, he looked down at me with no expression at all, his dark eyes unreadable.

“Joshua—,,” I began, but another voice interrupted mine.

“Mayhew, dude, what’s the holdup?”

“Nothing,” Joshua shot back without looking at O’Reilly.

“You’re blocking the door, handsome,” a girl—Kaylen, I think—called from the crowd behind Joshua.

But Joshua still didn’t move. He stared down at me in that frozen, immobile way. Eventually he stirred, keeping his gaze locked onto mine but turning slightly backward.

“Just remembered,” he told his friends, “I forgot something in my car.”

“Then could you, like, go get it?” Jillian whined. “Because ‘Joshua Mayhew’ isn’t a tardy excuse for the rest of us.”

“It isn’t an excuse for me, either. Just ask Ms. Wolters.” He turned fully to the crowd behind him and gave them his normal, broad grin. But when he turned back to me, the grin faded and his eyes finally flashed with real emotion. He shrugged and pushed past me, exiting the cafeteria.

I felt cold all over. Colder, even, than when the chilly air in the netherworld cut me to the bone. I easily recognized the emotion that had flashed in Joshua’s eyes, although I’d never seen it there before.

It was fury. Joshua was furious.

Trembling, I found an empty space between some of the students who were filing through the door and followed them. Once outside, my head swiveled around to find Joshua. I spotted him, already several paces away from his friends and striding quickly toward the school parking lot.

Finally, I was able to break through the crowd, and I hurried to catch up with Joshua. One look at the rigid muscles in his neck, however, made me hesitate. I stalled several feet behind him, with one foot on the curb and the other wavering just above the asphalt.

Joshua reached his car, opened the passenger side door, and made a show of digging around on the floorboard for his imaginary forgotten item. Standing upright, he gave me a sidelong glance and jerked his head toward the open door. Both gestures gave off a decidedly angry air.

As my foot dropped to the asphalt, I gulped. I trudged past him and then crawled into the car. Joshua slammed my door shut and, once he was in the car, jerked his own door shut as well. I winced at the sound.

Joshua didn’t look at me. He just sat there, hands gripped to the steering wheel and eyes glued to the dashboard. A thick silence fell over us. It seemed to squeeze out all the air in the car and, in the process, smother me. I would have preferred any amount of door slamming to this.

“I had a nightmare—,” I began lamely.

“Is that why you disappeared into thin air?” He spat out the interruption without taking his eyes off the dashboard.

“I did what?” I asked.

“You disappeared. Right after I kissed you. Or you kissed me. Whatever. We were kissing, but when I opened my eyes, you were gone.”

“Joshua, I—I had no idea it happened like that,” I sputtered. “That I just disappeared. All I know is that I was kissing you and then I had a nightmare. I woke up less than an hour ago, and I ran straight here.”

He finally turned toward me, scowling. “What do mean, ‘nightmare’? You had a bad dream or something?”

“Not exactly.” I held his gaze while I explained. “Every time I have a nightmare, I don’t really sleep. I just go unconscious and—apparently—disappear from wherever I am before the nightmare starts. It’s like I black out, and then suddenly I’m drowning again. I call them nightmares because eventually I wake up.”

Joshua remained silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his words still rang with disbelief. But I heard another chord in his voice, too—that of hurt.

“But you just woke up an hour ago?” he asked. “It’s been almost a full day since you disappeared. How is that even possible?”