Ada was at the Underhill Medical Center. She hadn't been able to sleep for the past two nights. Things were scaring her. A lot. She'd spent the time in her bed crying or trying to convince herself she was seeing things. Even the pills weren't working, for some weird reason. She'd called Dr. Alder on emergency and was going to see her today rather than go to school, even though her next appointment wasn't scheduled for another week. Hopefully, her problems could be explained away; Dr. Alder was usually good for that.

Her mother had driven, not saying much of anything. Ada knew her mom didn't know what to say to her anymore. They'd grown apart a long while back, but their distance grew a ton more when she'd started going out with Nate.

Dr. Alder's office seemed colder than usual; the vents were blowing too hard. Ada sat waiting alone in the room. Her mother didn't come past the lobby. Anyone was allowed, but Ada didn't want her there. She told Dr. Alder things she couldn't tell and would never even think about telling her mother. Talking to Dr. Alder was like writing in a journal, except easier. If the woman judged, she never made her judgments known. Whether she thought Ada was insane and obnoxious or whether she really did see her as a victim, Ada didn't know. And she didn't want to know. That was the nice part about being with the woman. She was like talking to a sponge that soaked up pain and stress and didn't criticize. Plus, Dr. Alder offered advice if Ada asked for it. Or, not really advice—more like ideas. Ideas for how to deal with things, or ideas of what was really going on with Ada's head.

So she'd definitely be able to explain away her current issues . . . hopefully.

The sun was half-hidden behind low clouds. Ada watched it from her seat in the leather armchair in front of Dr. Alder's desk. She shifted her eyes to the shining nameplate sitting in front of her, Dr. Josephine Eleanor Alder, PhD, and suddenly wondered how much her mother was paying for these appointments. Not that she really wanted to know—then she might feel guilty for seeing a therapist.

"Good morning, Ada," said Dr. Alder, startling her because she'd come into the room so quietly. "Nice to see you again."

She's lying, thought Ada suddenly, but she felt stupid for thinking it. Dr. Alder liked her. Dr. Alder wanted to help her. Or she at least wanted the paycheck that resulted from their meetings.

In response to the greeting, Ada merely forced a smile and nodded.

Dr. Alder sat down in the large chair behind her desk. Propped her chin up under her hands while adjusting her glasses. "You're not too happy, are you?" she asked softly.

Ada shook her head. She felt the sudden temptation to begin crying but stifled it. "I'm seeing things again," she bluntly began. She stopped there for a minute, but Dr. Alder urged her to go on with just a hand motion. "Blood. Lots of it. On my walls. Last night, I couldn't sleep because every time I turned off the lights, I saw it coming out of the corners of the ceiling, all black in the dark. It just ran down the walls in long drips. So I'd turn the light back on and then it'd be gone—disappeared. I thought it was my imagination, but every time I turned the lights off, I'd see it start up again. So I left the light on, but then I just couldn't sleep. Even the medicine doesn't help when the lights are on. And it's been like that for two nights. Just . . . I'm thinking it's just my mind overreacting, but I haven't been seeing things for a while, you know? It's been stuff like nightmares and panic attacks and guilt, but that's all it's been. Normal, right? I mean, normal for someone who's been through a trauma, like you said before. But my mind hasn't played games like this since . . . well, since that night."

Dr. Alder had listened intently. Ada looked up at her with her last words, giving her the cue to insert her opinion or questions. The woman only said, "How do you know this is blood that you're seeing"

It was kind of an unexpected question. Ada had been anticipating something more along the lines of, It's not as abnormal as you think.

"Um . . . I mean, I just know . . ." She had to really think about the question. How did she know? She hadn't gone and touched or smelled or tasted it. She hadn't actually seen the color of it, because it was gone when she turned on the lights. She hadn't had any way of knowing it was blood; she'd just assumed it was. "I guess my brain said it was blood."

Nodding, Dr. Alder said, "That's a good thing, Ada. It means that this is not some weird, supernatural phenomenon taking place in your bedroom, so you don't need to be afraid of anything like that. Your mind assuming you're seeing blood indicates that you are just imagining it. Your mind wants you to see blood, for whatever reason, and so you see it."

"But what would the reason be?" Ada knew the answer to her own question, and Dr. Alder knew she knew.

"You tell me."

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I'm still feeling guilty about Zach. I'm still blaming myself. It's like, his blood . . . I feel like it's my fault. And I can't get my mind off it. Multiplying numbers or counting sheep or whatever—it doesn't work. Nothing does." She felt her throat tighten. Her eyes stared at the tightly clasped fingers on her lap; her knuckles were white. Why did every visit with Dr. Alder come to this same discussion? She hated it, but she also knew the more she talked about it, the better she'd feel. It was like taking medicine.

The Doctor just sat there, her face the same calm, smooth expression it always was. That made Ada feel much more relaxed.

"It was my fault," she went on, quietly now, with no force in her voice. "If I hadn't forgotten . . . I was so stuck in my own stupid pretend problems that I didn't realize he was in so much pain. Or was it pain? I don't know."

"Pain is not something everyone deals with the same way," Dr. Alder commented. "You say Zach was in pain, but was his pain any different than yours was, at the time? Weren't you feeling lost and confused as well?"

"Yes," Ada agreed.

"And what did you expect of others when you were hurting?"

Once again, Ada found she had to really think about that answer. She felt the answer, but it took her a moment to find words for it. "I really just . . . wanted someone to tell me I was wrong. I wanted somebody to stop me from hating myself."

"And did anyone?"

She sighed. "No. I wouldn't let him. He tried, but I ignored him."

"Did you really?"

"Well . . . I acted like it. I mean, my actions . . . what I said to him—I didn't listen at first. But then, inside, I knew he was right. She looked up at the doctor again with glittering eyes. "But it was too late by the time I knew! It was too late. He was gone. I know, I know—you tell me every time that it wasn't my fault. That I wasn't the one who made him disappear. That whatever happened, it wasn't me who killed him or made him run off . . . and I want to believe you're right. But the thing is, if I'd only done what he'd asked, if I'd just shown up . . . maybe he'd still be here, and I would've been able to tell him I'm sorry, and that he was right, and I could've . . . well . . . I could've just shown him that someone does care about him, even though I really suck at showing it."

She was done. Her heart was hurting again. Every time she talked to Dr. Alder about Zach, she ended up feeling drained. So emotionally drained. But better, like some of the pressure had been let off her bloated brain.

It was nice, how Dr. Alder didn't disagree with her. Didn't try to persuade her not to feel blame. She just listened, and accepted, and remained calm.

At length, Ada asked, "What can I do about what I'm seeing?"

The woman adjusted her glasses as she looked down at a piece of paper she'd written something on. "Well, I'm going to prescribe you a stronger sleeping medication, but only for a short while, until your nights calm down a bit and you begin to feel more confident. Then, you'll decrease the dosage until you can get back on the simpler stuff. Because you're still getting up early for school, you may want to think about talking with an advisor about coming in for afternoon classes or late morning classes. Taking one or two more hours in the morning to rest, just for a little while. It's entirely up to you. How is school, by the way?"

Ada shrugged, kind of annoyed at the thought of the place. "I don't know. Pretty bad, I guess. Same as always. I just want to be invisible, but, you know . . . everyone still thinks I had something to do with everything. So, yeah. But I avoid people. Don't think about them unless I have to, and then only for a few minutes."

The subject of school was a potentially argumentative one, so they didn't discuss it much further. The bottom line was that Ada had no problem missing some morning classes. They talked about a few other things, then. Ada's mother, Owen, a few generic things like her physical health and how her stress levels were. Then, the allotted hour drew to a close, and Ada began to feel too tired to continue talking. Sometimes, the time went way too quickly. She really didn't want to go back out to her mother in the waiting room.

Removing her glasses altogether and setting them on the desk, Dr. Alder looked squarely at Ada. "You know," she said, a strand of dark hair slipping down onto her forehead, where she brushed it aside, "this will end, Ada. It will. Mysteries don't go unsolved forever. You'll find yourself again, and when you do, I have a feeling you won't be alone. I know that right now, you feel like you're entirely alone . . . but it isn't meant to stay that way. This will end."

Unsure whether she agreed or disagreed or whether she wanted to even think about those words at all, Ada sighed, made herself nod in acceptance, and stood to go. Dr. Alder walked her to the door.

"Take care of yourself," the woman said, "and I'm looking forward to your next appointment. Call me again if this medication doesn't do the trick."

Medicine, medicine—it was always more medicine. Sure, it'd work, for a while. Then time would pass, she'd be immune to it, and she'd need something else. That's how it always was. She waited with her mother as they scheduled the next appointment and called in her prescription. Then they left, and Ada sat silently in the car while they drove home. It was awkward, how she and her mother never talked, although Ada had always blamed her for her dad's leaving them. If her mother hadn't been so concerned about her stupid career, her father would never have felt inferior, and he wouldn't have gone away. Ada knew Owen didn't exactly feel that way. He blamed their father more, so he was kinder to their mother than she was.

Back at home, Ada had her mother speak with the advisors at school about Dr. Alder's half-day advice. It would be nice to sleep in for a few weeks. She'd need the rest, anyway, if she kept imagining things. Her mind jumped to the memory of the blood—or what she'd assumed was blood—as it trickled, glistened from the corners where her walls met her ceiling. Dr. Alder's words had comforted her for the moment. Ada knew that heightened stress levels could lead to anxiety or panic attacks, which could then cause the brain to overreact to certain thoughts or emotions. There was nothing so unbelievable about that.

Around four o'clock, Ada's mother went to meet with the high school advisor and pick up her daughter's prescription. Owen was at hockey practice, so Ada found herself alone in the house. It was nice to be alone, sometimes. To not have anyone around that you felt obligated to talk to or be nice to. She was all ready to scoop herself a bowl of ice cream and watch some trash TV, when the doorbell rang.

Must be one of Owen's friends, was her first thought, irritated for no better reason than that she didn't feel like getting up. She was about to let it go—not answer at all—who'd know the difference? Besides, it could always be some creepy delivery man or something. But then, for whatever reason, she decided to go ahead and get the door.

Leaving her bowl on the coffee table, she got up and went to the front door, opening it just a few inches to peek out and see who was there. When she saw the tall, grungy, dangerously beautiful guy standing on her front step, her breath was taken away. Her immediate instinct was to shut the door, but she was frozen in place. He looked angry, as he stood there, and when he saw her face, he instantly shoved his foot in the door anyway, so she couldn't have closed it if she'd tried.

"You're going to talk to me," was all he said, and Ada knew she couldn't say no to him. Not when he was here. Not when he was standing right in front of her. She had little willpower, and he knew it. She'd have to let Nate in.