Zach didn't go to school on Thursday. He'd cut out early on Wednesday and decided not to go at all on Thursday. He just didn't feel like it. He got up when his stepmom told him to, dressed, and told his parents he'd gotten a ride, which they believed. Then, they'd left, and he'd tossed his backpack onto the floor and left the house, but he definitely hadn't headed for school. He'd gone into the woods, feeling a sudden urge to be in there, at his spot, where everything felt less out-of-place, even if it wasn't exactly all in the right places.

He'd brought only his headphones to keep him company. He didn't need anything else. The trudge through the woods had been calm. The leaves were all manner of colors, and they were falling by the dozens as he wandered through the trees. Even though he found them depressing, they were also beautiful to walk amongst. Soon, all the trees would be entirely bare, and their branches would twist and twine up toward the gray, winter skies. Usually, frost settled into the area around Thanksgiving, but something in the air indicated that the frost would come sooner, this year. It was a certain smell, and the extra-crisp edge on the breezes that blew.

There was something about Zach's house that he found unsettling. Sure, he'd lived there for most of his life, but for some reason, being in that building was beginning to feel unbearable. Even when his parents weren't there, he was reminded of them at every turn. Their pictures, their grocery lists and open newspapers splayed across the kitchen table, their eaten-off-of dishes sitting in the sink. Everything about the house made him think of them, and he couldn't stand being reminded that he was theirs.

He reached the white tree. It really didn't look too strikingly white, right then. The way the light fell down into the woods made it look more gray than white. For some reason, that unnerved Zach. He liked it when it was obvious and bright against the others, but at least he could still tell which one it was. Settling down with his back against the trunk, Zach closed his eyes. He sat and listened to his music as it blared through his eardrums and pressed against the sides of his skull. There was something beautiful about music like that. Something that called out to a part of him that wanted to scream and yell and tear itself into pieces. The singers always seemed to speak to Zach, too. They went on about frustration and hate and pain and all of the things he felt he understood. And the music itself was amazing. All that loudness that pounded into his brain. It calmed him down, made him feel as if he was going to make it.

Because he wasn't often sure.

Zach was beginning to feel like he didn't know who he was. He really hated thinking about himself, because it implied that he had feelings or emotions, which he typically didn't. He hated sounding like every other adolescent in the world complaining about their parents and teenaged lives. But he couldn't help feeling lost, no matter how much he tried to deny feeling anything. Maybe the difference between him and everyone else was that not only was he was losing himself, but there was also no one to help him find his way back to wherever he needed to be. He was utterly alone.

Zach had never been much of a thinker. His thoughts had always centered on not failing school, pretty girls, and soccer (until his dad had forced him to quit). But now, it was as if all he did was think—like his brain was on overdrive—and his thoughts were beginning to scare him. Like what he'd thought about doing to that girl not so long ago, and the dark image stuck in his head that he was trying to paint, and the way he felt in these woods. The way he was beginning to think bad thoughts of Ada, and how he'd started hating Evan. It was as if everything was stuck in a blender, and the more it spun and spun, the more mutilated everything became. If there was someone—anyone—who he could talk to, or at least who he felt cared about his existence . . . well, maybe he wouldn't be so scared about getting lost. Because most people got lost at random points in their lives, right? But they had people help them come back. Zach had absolutely no one to turn to.

The air suddenly chilled several degrees. The cold that Zach had been fairly comfortable in turned sharp and biting within a matter of seconds. His bare cheeks burned as the wind blew, and he opened his eyes to see leaves swirling upward as they were swept off the forest floor.

This place was strange. It was alive, Zach felt. The trees knew one another and watched the people and animals that moved through them. Whether they watched welcomingly or not, Zach didn't know. He had a notion that they didn't mind his being there; he was cold and bare and sedentary, like they were. But his exposed hands and face started to sting with the chill, and he decided that it was time to get up and wander somewhere else—perhaps to find some food; he was hungry.

Zach found some money in one of his stepmom's spare purses. Twenty dollars, to be exact, and while he wasn't typically in the habit of stealing money, he just figured it didn't matter what he did or didn't do, anymore. Everything was coming to an end, anyhow, so taking twenty bucks that weren't his didn't seem like a big deal. If his stepmom ever even noticed it missing, she'd be hardly likely to blame him for it.

Then he grabbed some gloves and a hat and went back outside. For some while, he meandered through his neighborhood, not really headed anywhere in particular, but eventually, he got to a gas station and decided he was hungry enough for some food. So he went in, filled up an enormous plastic cup with some Coke, pulled a sandwich out of one of the refrigerators, and yanked a bag of Doritos off the shelf. Then he went to the counter to pay for everything. He waited in line for a couple of minutes as a few random people paid for gas and cigarettes and lottery tickets, and then he stepped up. The guy at the cash-register was tall and scruffy-looking with big nostrils. He didn't even glance at Zach before saying, "Next!"

Zach put his stuff on the counter. Scrounged in his pocket for the cash. But before he could get his money out, the lady behind him in line stepped around him and told the cashier, "Pump 5. The Kia."

The guy rang her up. She paid, and even though Zach gave her a dirty look because she was so rude, he didn't say anything, and she didn't acknowledge him at all.

As soon as the woman walked away, Zach held out his twenty to the cashier. "Here," he said. "For this." He waved his hand at his food.

The guy didn't look at him, still. Didn't respond. Didn't take his cash. He stared over Zach's head for a moment, as if he was looking to see if anyone else was ready to check out, and then, apparently seeing no one, he began opening a pack of gum.

Zach just stood there for a minute, confused and annoyed. He watched the guy, then raised his voice as he said, "Hello! I need to pay for my food. You want the money or not?"

Still, he was ignored.

Someone came up behind him. A man with a gallon of milk and a newspaper. He stepped around Zach as if he didn't even see him, and the cashier guy responded right away by taking the man's credit card and swiping it, asking him whether it was getting really cold outside yet, commenting about the article on the front page of the newspaper. The guy and the man had their casual conversation while Zach stood, open-mouthed, watching them. He couldn't believe what was happening.

"Fine," Zach said as the man was signing his credit card receipt. "I'm going to take this stuff, and if you want money, you'll stop me." He grabbed his food and walked out of the gas station, checking over his shoulder a couple of times to see if the man at the register or the cashier noticed him . . . but neither of them even glanced his way.

Zach felt uneasy, suddenly. Not at the rudeness of the cashier or the man and lady who butted in front of him to pay—it wasn't that. It was more like . . . like what had happened with Hannah and Mr. Thomas—like they hadn't even seen him. He'd been . . . almost . . . invisible . . .

No. He wasn't going to think that. It was impossible. They'd just been busy at the register. Maybe he had been too short for the cashier to see over the counter. Or they were being nice and wanted him to have a free lunch.

Zach knew none of those things was possible, but the idea that they hadn't even seen or heard him wasn't, either.

By around six-thirty, he was back home. He couldn't really say where he'd been all afternoon, either physically or mentally. He'd wandered for hours, trying to understand what had happened at the gas station—which had happened more than once, now. It didn't bother him that he'd walked out of that place without paying for his food. He didn't consider it stealing; he'd tried to pay, but the guy wouldn't let him. It wasn't his fault. When he drifted back into his house, he didn't even realize his stepmom would be home. (If he'd thought about that, he might have gone back into the woods.) His mind was rather preoccupied, and only when he heard his parents arguing mildly about something did he wake from his stupor. Following the sounds of their voices into the kitchen, Zach stood in the doorframe and stared at his dad, who was going on about something having to do with a class he was teaching.

"Why are you home early, dad?" Zach asked after a few moments, partially because he was curious about his father's early arrival but mostly because he wanted to test the gut feeling he had inside.

His stepmom shook her head at something and said, "You're the one who always complained about having to work late hours. You should be glad they don't want you to come back."

It was obvious to Zach that she wasn't responding to him but to his father.

And his dad didn't notice him either, as he answered his wife with, "I was making the extra money so you wouldn't have to." The man sighed. "It's not like we need it, I guess. It's just nice to have the extra."

Zach gazed incredulously at his parents. They definitely didn't see him standing in the doorway. So he actually stepped into the kitchen. Tried again. "Do you know I'm even here?" He spoke loudly, over their terse conversation. "I'm standing right here, in the middle of the floor. Dad! Why are you home? Why don't you see me?" He waved his hands in front of his father's face. He stomped on the floor. He yelled something inappropriate as loud as he dared. Neither his father nor his stepmother took any notice of him. They went about arguing.

Frightened, frustrated, confused, Zach stormed back out of the house. The skies outside were darkening earlier as the days passed; street lamps were already on and stars were visible in the sky as the clouds began to disperse. It was colder than Zach had remembered before he'd gone into his house, but maybe it only felt that way because he'd been so out-of-it until he'd ventured inside.

He stood on the lawn with his arms wrapped around himself, squeezing his rib cage like he'd seen Ada do so many times. He was breathing hard and fast, like he'd used to when he had childhood asthma. He'd grown out of using an inhaler several years ago, but he suddenly wished he had the thing on him. Was having trouble breathing.

His parents never took notice of him, but it wasn't like what he'd just experienced in the kitchen. They just never came around him or talked to him unless they had something for him to do or be angry about. But this time—this time, he'd stood there and yelled and made a fit; any normal person would've told him to shut up or go away or at least give him some annoyed expression . . . They'd done nothing. Absolutely nothing.

What was happening to him?

"Hey! Whatsa matter?"

Zach spun around, his arms still wrapped tightly about himself. In the dying sunlight, he saw the neighbor kids standing at the fence that divided his yard from theirs. He didn't say anything in response, just stared at the two boys hanging their arms over the wood fence with their white-blond hair and eyes that looked like little holes in their faces because of the dim light.

A few seconds passed, and the older one opened his mouth and repeated more emphatically, "What's the matter?"

They were talking to him, Zach realized. "Y-you can see me?"

The boys didn't respond right away as they processed his question. Then the older one said somewhat sarcastically, "Yeah, it's not that dark."

Not picking up on the sarcasm, Zach began walking toward the two. He'd never particularly liked those kids, but the fact that he wasn't invisible to them made him immensely relieved. "You hear me talking, and you really see me?"

The littler boy grinned up at Zach, his cheeks puffing out and his eyes sparkling. "You wanna play hide n' seek or something? I'll play!" He kicked his toes at the fencepost.

"No, I don't want to play anything." Zach felt enormously stupid all of a sudden. They could see him; he obviously hadn't disappeared. He was more likely going crazy. Now he was stuck talking to these kids.

"You look kind of sick," said the older one, staring at Zach curiously. "How long have you been outside?"

Frowning, Zach rolled his eyes. "How long have you been outside watching me?"

"We weren't warching," the older one replied calmly, as if he hadn't even noticed the teen's irritation. "We were just standing out here and then you came around the yard and we saw you, and we thought maybe something was wrong because you were just hugging yourself."

"I was not hugging myself."

"Fine. Whatever you were doing. You just didn't look good."

Zach felt uncomfortable. He turned and stared across the lawn to his house.

The older one, seeing Zach wasn't going to say anything, added, "Do you want to come play a game? We got a new basketball hoop in the backyard. It's fun. But we can't make good baskets. Can you show us how?"

"No," replied Zach immediately, practically cutting off the boy before he'd finished his sentence. "I have to go." He started back across his lawn before either of the boys could ask anything else. He wasn't normally so rude to them. He usually blew them off in a nicer, less obvious way. But he was storming inside and almost felt like talking would make him vomit.

As he came around to the front of his house, the door suddenly opened and his stepmom came out onto the shallow porch. She looked right at him and said, "You can go eat something. And take out the trash."

Zach froze, glared at her.

She stared back. "Hello? Did you hear me? Don't just stand out there in the dark like that. Come inside."

He shook himself and started up the steps. She definitely saw him, just like the boys had. Was he going insane? He wasn't sure.

Without a word, Zach went in, gathered up the garbage bag from the kitchen, and took it out. Once back inside, he didn't eat dinner. He wasn't hungry. He just went up into his bedroom and shut the door. Looked at the messy place that was his only sanctuary in this weird building. He hardly felt comfortable in his own room, anymore.

He'd go to bed early. Why not? It was only going on seven-fifteen, but sleep meant he wouldn't have to debate his sanity or visibility. It meant he would be able to wrap himself up in his blankets and shut out the real world. Because it wasn't making any sense at all to him anymore. Not that it had ever really fit together—every time he'd begun to feel ok in the past, something would happen to rip out another chunk of his foundation. Mostly it had been his parents' divorce, and even though they'd insisted that Zach would be better off with happily divorced parents than unhappily married ones, he definitely wasn't better off now. Nor was he when they'd first divorced. Whether or not he'd have been better off if they'd stayed married, he didn't know. But whatever that twisted logic was they'd tried screwing into his head, it hadn't worked. And then, just when he'd begun getting used to being alone with his dad, the man had remarried. After that, his real mom had found a new husband. When middle school hit, he'd been pulled out of soccer. Now, it was his friends. Or lack of friends, to be more exact.

Without even changing into his pajamas, Zach removed his shoes and turned off his bedroom light. The room was pitch black, so he felt his way around the junk on the floor and to his bed, where he laid down and tried to clear his mind, hoping that he'd be able to forget his life for at least a few dark hours of REM.