Daylight poured through the woods behind the Farmer house. It wasn't a bright daylight, really—still gray. But it was daylight all the same. Evan and Ada were glad for it. They'd sworn internally never to enter those woods again in darkness, and last night, both had broken that promise they'd made to themselves. Ada because she'd been forced to; Evan because he'd been asked to.

It hadn't been hard to find Ada the night before. Luckily, she really hadn't been too deep into the woods, and this time, the trees hadn't tricked her into walking in circles as she'd feared they might. She'd been easily able to retrace the steps she and Nate had taken back to the main road, and within about fifteen minutes, Evan had driven by and picked her up. It had been a tense wait for her; Ada had really had to force her mind not to think about what had happened last Halloween. That nightmare, she'd been determined to convince herself, had been nothing but an overactive imagination fueled by stress and exhaustion. That was what Dr. Alder had told her to tell herself. It hadn't been working too well, but as she'd stood there waiting for Evan, it was what she'd pushed her brain to repeat over and over again until her rescuer appeared.

Evan hadn't asked many questions. He knew Ada well enough to know not to push her. If she'd wanted to talk, she would have, and she hadn't wanted to, because she'd been silent for almost the entire ride back to her house. He had noticed that she'd seemed unwell. In the dim glow from the dashboard controls, he hadn't really been able to really see her face, so he hadn't noticed the enormous bruise forming across her cheek and the tear stains streaming from her eyes. And Ada had paid no attention to Evan as he'd repeatedly messed with his left arm, rolling up the sleeve and then forcing it back down. Both of them had been too wrapped up in what had happened that night to think of the other.

Now, though, Evan had called Ada on what she'd said the night before—about doing anything for him if he picked her up—and what he wanted was to go back into those woods to find Zach. He knew, somehow, that his long-missing friend was there. And he had the gut instinct that he was dead. If that was true (and Evan dreaded finding out that it was) then he couldn't possibly be too hard to find. While Ada had been reluctant to go back into those woods, she knew she'd made a promise, and as long as Evan agreed to go during daylight, she gave up arguing with him and decided to just go. She didn't tell him that she was scared to really know what had happened. As much as she knew it would be a relief to figure all of this out, she had a terrible sense that hope was worthless. It was with heavy hearts and silent mouths that the two of them entered into the first rings of bare trees behind Zach's house. Both were hesitant; both were afraid of the truth; but both also felt, deep inside, that this day would end in understanding.

Something somehow . . . different . . . is happening. I can feel the strange vibrations in the earth around me, as if this place is about to collapse and leave me exposed . . . spread me out in the open for the birds to peck away at my remains. I can't let that happen. I'm too afraid for them to see me. Because as rotted away and incapable of movement as I am, I'm still, in some weird way, really here. I mean, I have knowledge of myself and my surroundings. I can't interact, but I can tell what's going on. And I'm deathly afraid of their finding me and tearing me to shreds . . . as if they haven't already eaten enough of me away.

They'd met at the edge of the woods. Evan had driven his mother's car. Ada had walked. And in the daylight, the boy could clearly see the deep discoloration of his friend's face. His questioning glance caused her to turn her head downward in embarrassment.

"Come on," she said, ignoring his gaze. "Let's just get this over with."

Evan didn't ask anything at first. He let her pass him by and then turned to take one last look at the Farmers' house before heading too deep into the branches to see it; the building was as still and calm as ever. But next door, Evan was startled to see, the two little neighbor boys were leaning over their fence, watching him and Ada intently, their eyes not straying. They seemed to read Evan—to know what he was thinking—and that bothered him. Trying his best to ignore the two, he looked away and followed Ada.

"What happened to your face?" He had to ask it. He couldn't let it go. And the uncanny silence of the woods needed to be broken. "Is that from last night?"

Ada didn't answer right away. She just walked slowly in front of him. Then, she said as casually as she could manage, "No. Happened several days ago. You know, Owen and I got into an argument."

Evan knew right away that she was lying, but instead of calling her on it, he for some reason looked down at his left arm. Held it up in front of him. His eyes seemed to stare through the thick jacket covering it, see right through to the numerous bandaids that were stuck all across the cuts he'd produced last night. Briefly, he considered telling Ada about them, but then he realized how crazy that thought was and stifled it.

The trees weren't threatening at all as they moved through them. Both recalled the night they'd spent here, amidst these same trees, seeing the impossible and hardly knowing of anything but their own insanity. It'd taken some time for them to sort out what they'd been through, and when they'd given their stories to the police, they'd only been laughed at or had eyebrows raised in their direction. No bodies had been found on the forest floor. No blood had been detected on Ada's clothing or person. There were no maggots in the woods in such cold weather, and even the white tree hadn't been located. In such a frost, every tree looked white. Evan and Ada had been so disturbed by the whole thing that they'd refused to go back into the woods, and then everything about Zach disappearing enveloped the town and they were too busy deflecting the circulating rumors and gossip to think about anything else. High school became hell, Evan dropped out, Ada removed herself emotionally from everyone and everything and even broke it off with Nate. Life just . . . moved on, and all the confusion and turmoil of Halloween had been swallowed in the aftermath of Zach's puzzling disappearance.

"What exactly are you looking for back here?" Ada asked, brushing some twigs out of her face as they threatened to scratch her.

Evan didn't even want to reply. She knew what he was looking for. Instead of stating the obvious, he said, "That white tree. It's back here, right? I just can't help but feel that it has something to do with everything. I mean, it was where he wanted to meet. We saw it that night . . ." He didn't want to bring up the image of what it had looked like. "And then, well . . . I saw a bunch of pictures Zach drew, and in the hospital, I dreamed about it . . ." He was getting frustrated with his own words, because he knew how stupid they sounded. Exasperated, he added, "It's like all these signs keep telling me he's back here. Zach is in these woods. He waited for us here, and when we didn't make it, he never left. He's still . . . well, still waiting for us, I think."

Ada was shaking her head. Evan couldn't see her face because she was walking in front of him; he could only guess what it looked like. "You think too much, Evan." She stopped walking abruptly and turned to her friend. "Did you ever think," she asked him as he came right up to her, "that if we do figure out what happened to Zach, we might not like it?"

Studying the girl intently, Evan replied, "Every single day." Her bruise was staring him in the face. It was ugly and looked painful. Owen definitely hadn't done it to her. The one time he'd met Ada's brother, the kid had seemed entirely harmless. No, Owen couldn't have done it. Evan had an idea of who had. "What actually happened to you last night?"

Ada's mouth became a thin line as she grew stubborn. "Come on," she said, ignoring his question entirely. "Let's just go." She grabbed onto his left arm as if to lead him along, but he gasped in pain when her fingers gripped him, and she let go. Unsure what had just happened, Ada was only able to give him a questioning glance before he shoved past her and kept moving. With a sigh, she followed. It wouldn't be long before they reached their destination, and in the daylight, these woods didn't seem frightening at all.

Someone's coming here. I haven't heard the leaves move so much in months. When the snow melted in them and they crackled as they unfroze. Yeah, it's so quiet in these woods that I've heard a lot over the past months that I never would've noticed before. I'm worried about this, though. I don't know if I want anyone here. I just—I don't know if I'm ready! All this time I've been here . . . and I don't know if I'm ready. For what? I don't know that, either. I don't know anything right now. I'm just scared of being out in the open. Those birds are there; they always have been, even when they're good at hiding. I think I'm better off sitting here for eternity, letting the grubs chew up the rest of the skin or whatever that is still sticking to my bones. I don't really know what will happen, or if anything will happen, and whether I'll do everything right . . . I wish they'd just go away, those stupid black birds with their red eyes and razor-sharp beaks and ways that tore me up and ripped me apart—I can't go through it all again. I would rather die twice!

They were there. At the tree. But they hardly noticed it for the argument they were embroiled in. Ada was doubting that their little excursion into the woods (as she called it) would do anything at all. Evan was reproaching her for leaving him in the hospital with no hope. And while their arguing didn't have much of a point to it, their words were growing louder and meaner by the second.

"This is so stupid. I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

Evan scowled at her. "You only want to leave because you don't want me to figure out what really happened to you last night. You know, it's funny, Ada, that when you needed me, I was there to come get you, in the middle of the night. When I needed you? You decided it would be too much trouble, didn't you? Since I went in to that hospital, all the way up until last night when you called, I've been having serious problems with . . . with everything! And you were just too caught up in yourself to even care whether I fell into a black hole or not. Now, here you are, and you aren't going to stay, and it's not for any reason other than that you're embarrassed about what happened to you."

"How do you know?" Ada snapped. "You have no idea what this is about." She motioned to her bruise. "No clue, Evan! You sit there and blame me for being selfish . . . well the same goes for you! I'm not the only person around here who's a little self-absorbed. Yeah, sure, I have problems. They're most of them called Nate. But you've known that forever. I've never kept it secret. You, though—you've been hiding things since I first met you. What, are you surprised I could tell? I'm not blind, Evan. I might be stupid sometimes, but I can tell that there's something wrong with you. I just don't shove it all back in your face like you're doing to me." She was pointing at him, then flailing her arms out wide, gesturing as if she was mad, she was so worked up.

Evan could only stare at her in shock.

Why are they yelling? They're so loud. I can't tell what they're saying, though; my eardrums have disintegrated, I guess. I can only tell they're loud and angry. They're fighting. Why? I wish I knew what it was all about. Are they going to see me? Will they find me? Do I want them to?

Their yelling scares me. I'm so used to the quiet that I'd forgotten what yelling sounded like until now . . . All I can do is wait . . . listen . . . know my heart would be beating like crazy if I still had one . . . I'm no longer sure I want to be found . . . I don't know why I even did this, anymore. Whether it was the right thing or the wrong thing or what the difference is. Because I can't tell. And I'm afraid to be found.

"You want to know what this is from?" cried Ada, meaning her bruise. "You want to know the truth?"

Evan didn't nod or shake his head or make any movement at all. He was beginning to feel anxious about everything . . . about their yelling, about his secrets, about the woods, which felt as if they were gathering closer on all sides.

But Ada was suddenly in a frenzy, as if she'd been waiting and waiting to speak but no one would listen. "Nate did it, Evan. Last night. I went to see him again, even though I knew I shouldn't. I knew he would probably try something, but I still went, and do you want to know why? Because for as mean as he is, for as much as everyone tells me he's bad and delinquent and violent, I still want him. I want him more than I ever wanted anything in my life." She crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed tight. Her hair hung across her forehead and into her face as she turned her head toward the ground. "Why would I want something that hurts me, Evan? Do I want to be hurt? Do I want to feel like I'm messed up?" Her voice became softer and she looked up at him again. "The more I try to tell myself no, the more I realize that the answer is actually . . . yes. And I can't figure out why. I mean, I just don't know what's wrong with me that I want something so awful. Or why I want to put myself through pain." She laughed bitterly. "You know, even last night, as I was lying there on my back on the ground, staring up at the pitch-black sky, and my face and neck were burning from what he did and I knew he'd left me there and wouldn't even have cared if I'd died—I wanted him to come back. I wanted him to come and help me up and tell me it was ok, even though he might do it again, and even though he wasn't sorry. Because part of me . . . I don't know what part, but it's something . . . part of me felt like I deserved it. Like he was mean because I needed somebody to be mean to me. I'd asked for it, somehow and deserved it."

Evan was staring at her. Had been staring, expressionless, since she'd begun speaking. And now she was looking at him dead-on, her eyes beginning to tear up despite her attempt at keeping herself from crying.

She sniffed her tears back for another few seconds, but her eyes and mouth glistened as she added quietly, "Something's wrong with me, Evan. Something's really wrong. And there's no one to help, and no way to fix it. I have no willpower, and I'm ashamed of everything about me. I hate myself. I'm just . . . a messed up waste. I might as well be dead."

Words weren't necessary. Evan found himself moving toward her until he was hardly a foot away. He studied the tears beginning to run from the corners of her eyes and over the purplish-green welt on her face. He touched her normal-colored cheek as if to reassure her but felt his own eyes fill with water as he did so. Then, taking his hand away from her, Evan unbuttoned his jacket, took it off and tossed it onto the ground, and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. Right away, the bright white, hour-glass shaped butterfly-bandaids were displayed, and they didn't entirely cover all of the slits, as they were meant more to hold the skin together than to entirely bandage it.

At once, Ada knew. Not everything, but enough. She'd never known anyone who was a cutter, but she could tell instantly that Evan was. Maybe he'd just begun . . . maybe he'd been doing it forever. It didn't matter. Her eyes met his. They seemed suddenly, for the first time since meeting, to really see one another.

Placing her hands softly into Evan's, Ada held his cold fingers in her own. She looked at the face in front of her and knew it belonged not just to some sophomore boy who acted overconfident most of the time but to a human being just as miserable as she was. She noted his long, dark, straight hair, his pale complexion, the tears dripping down his cheeks as he stood otherwise entirely composed. And she felt ashamed of herself for not understanding him sooner. Ashamed and yet grateful to have found him, now. "Why us, Evan?" she near-whispered. "Why us?"

He sniffed almost inaudibly. "We were made like this."

Ada wanted to shake her head. "No . . . I don't believe people are just born screwed up."

Evan let go of her hands. "That wasn't what I meant," he said.

Stepping past her, he went toward the tree. As he walked, he rolled his sleeve back down, but he left his jacket lying on the forest floor. The cold air felt good. Made his head feel clearer than it had ever been, or maybe it was finally showing someone what he really was that caused his thoughts to suddenly begin feeling at home in his skull.

Everything I know is starting to tremble. They've gone quiet—the voices. But they're there . . . and it's all about to change, now . . .

"It's not fair, Ada," Evan quietly said, his back to her. "But I'm glad you know."

She approached him. Put a hand on his shoulder. Used her other hand to play nervously with one of her earrings. Then added, "Me too. Maybe we can help each other."

He turned sharply. "It's what happened to Zach," he said, fast and resolutely. "He felt like us. But we were too busy with ourselves to notice him. Not like it was my fault or your fault or his . . . we were all the same. And instead of helping each other, we all thought we could handle it alone. If I'd had to go another day like this—if you hadn't called last night—I know I'd be in a really bad place right now. Maybe even dead, for all I know, or hurting someone. We'd have just gone on and on beating ourselves up, because we thought we were all on our own. If we'd just listened to each other—really listened . . ." He sighed. Rubbed his forehead. "Well, maybe he'd still be here. But he tested us, Ada. He tested whether we were actually his friends—or not even that, really, but whether or not we knew him and could understand that he was getting in deep." His face was grim. "And we failed the test."

Wanting to hide his ashamed expression, Evan turned back to the white tree and absent-mindedly kicked at the roots of it. Both he and Ada gasped and leapt back as his shoe knocked a part of the trunk away and the rotted insides of it came whooshing down onto the scattered leaves.

Not noticing anything too terribly unusual at first, Ada began to calm down, saying she'd been scared half-to-death by the sound. Evan, though, sensed something strange about what had just tumbled out of the hollow trunk. Getting closer, he crouched down and stared in growing shock and horror as he realized what the pile of debris was. But he didn't get up and run away. He didn't scream in terror or fall into a fit of hysteria. Deep, deep hurt and sadness overwhelmed him, and the sobs he'd managed to keep back earlier began to well up in his chest.

Ada, seeing now that something was wrong, went to Evan's side and knelt down. She wasn't as able to keep her composure. In a controlled anger, she cried out that no, this couldn't really have happened. That this was not really true. That it couldn't be.

But both of them knew it in fact was real—that it was more real than anything else that had ever happened to them. And it was made more real because they'd hoped for months that it wasn't the answer while knowing all along it probably was.

Why are they looking at me like that? With open mouths and tears and eyes that are as wide as the long-hidden sky looks now? I don't understand . . . can I possibly look so awful? I know I'm rotting and probably full of crawling things and falling to pieces and my bones are probably showing through from the nights it got warmer than it should have . . . and I know my eyes are gone, though I can somehow still see—or sense, really. I can't see, but I sense. They're staring at me as if I was a freak—and I'd thought they were my friends. Why are they here, now? Why have they come so late? Why is she crying and trying to pull him away from me? Can't they see that I'm sorry? I'm sorry for looking like this! I don't want to scare you away! I want you to stay—it was all I ever wanted—for you to come and tell me that everything wouldn't always be like it was—that there really were good people and families and friends out there, even if I felt like I couldn't find any. And now, at last, you've come to me, but you're leaving? Your faces are so close to mine. Your eyes are so big and I want to go back with you . . . please . . . take me home . . . I'll do anything to get away from here . . .

No! Don't get up and go! Can't you see the birds circling overhead? They're going to rip me to pieces! And then who knows where I'll be?! You've waited so long to find me—I've waited so long for you to come—please don't leave me again—you have to hear me—don't walk away!

They didn't know what to do. What to think. What to say. They sat shivering together, several yards away from the body, arms wrapped tightly about one another.

The gaping holes in the skull, the bits of flesh still clinging to the gray bones, the fabric of Zach's clothing, the bits of hair and nails and teeth and everything . . . it was too much for them to bear. And both knew, without having to say it aloud, that he'd done it to himself. They'd seen the old can that had come out of the hollow with him. And while it seemed terrible and impossible, the Zach they knew—or thought they'd known—would've done it. He'd been driven to it. And if they'd only come like he'd asked . . . they wouldn't now be staring at his mangled remains.

"Not another nightmare, Evan," Ada sobbed. "I can't have any more nightmares!"

Evan put his arms around her. They sat on the ground, faces buried into one another's shoulders. Eyes closed. Ada's sobs and angry cries of unfairness filling the forest as a watery sunlight began to shimmer down through the treetops. Zach's remains stared silently at them from the base of the white tree. At last, the three of them were together in the woods, as it was supposed to be so many months ago the pre-dawn morning of October 31st, Halloween, when everyone forgot Zach Farmer existed, and he disappeared.