Kyle was brought home from the hospital two weeks later with the realization that he'd have to get used to an entirely new life. One that didn't involve using his legs. It was a harsh blow to a boy as active as Kyle Kemper. As lively and cheerful. And he didn't know how to deal with it.

Jack did not go into his brother's room. He knew Kyle did not want him there. It had been awkward for the two brothers to be in one another's presence. They were unsure how to treat each other. And Kyle had made it clear from the beginning—when he'd first realized his legs didn't work—that he blamed his twin for the accident. That alone had convinced Jack that he wasn't wanted. So he watched as his parents went to and from Kyle's new room on the first floor, trying to make certain he was comfortable, because they'd converted the den into his bedroom and his old upstairs room into the den. It was what they'd have to do, they explained to Kyle, until they were able to install an elevator or lift that could take him up the stairs. They didn't have enough money to do that just yet.

From the kitchen doorway, Jack stood watching. He held onto the frame of the arch tightly. He didn't want the quiet to come. Not the quiet of the night. When the house would settle and all would sleep. Because he hadn't been able to relax for the past two weeks. Not with that gaping hole still carved into the backyard. The little shadows had returned to his room, and rather than making him feel that things were going back to normal, they only reminded him of what had happened. He hated them because they were less frightened of him. They flicked around the room less. Jack found that he was closer than ever to focusing on them, because they were less scared and so did not dart away as quickly as they had before. That unnerved him.

When he should've been in bed, Jack crept downstairs. He knew his parents were still awake. Their voices trailed upstairs like those of ghosts.

He passed his brother's new room. He hadn't seen Kyle since that morning when they'd brought him home from the hospital. Jack hadn't even gone into the room, because Kyle had shut his door almost right away, blocking the outside world. His friends had come over with their parents. Matt and David. To talk to him and bring cards. But Mr. and Mrs. Kemper had had to politely shoo them away. Kyle would talk to no one.

Pausing at his twin's door, Jack rested a hand on the wood. He stared at the doorknob, which shone dully in the darkness. It only shone at all because of the soft light coming from the kitchen, where his parents were. For a moment, Jack contemplated going in and talking to Kyle. Looking at him lying in his bed. Acting like nothing had happened. But then he caught something his father was saying and felt his stomach turn.

"I hate saying it, but I think Kyle's right. This was Jack's fault."

Mrs. Kemper's voice quickly followed. "We've asked Jack what happened and gotten an entirely different story," she said. "He was certain he saw someone out in the yard and worried it was Kyle."

"So why didn't he come and get us?"

"Why didn't Kyle get us when he saw Jack? That's not the point, David. There's no use asking that question. For whatever reason, they didn't. I don't know what exactly happened."

A pause. Then Mr. Kemper said, "One of them was wrong. They couldn't have both seen the other from their windows. Jack even admitted that when he got outside, he lost sight of whoever he'd seen and thought they might have fallen. Then Kyle came up from behind him. I'm more willing to believe Kyle on this."

"How can you say that?" Mrs. Kemper's voice came in an anguished whisper. "You don't trust your own son."

Jack left Kyle's door and stepped closer to the kitchen. He kept to the shadows but, from where he stood, he was able to see his father's face and the back of his mother's head. They were both sitting at the table.

His father had his big hands over his face, rubbing his forehead. His hair was unkempt and, when he drew his hands away, Jack could see the redness in his eyes. "You know as well as I do that Jack has always been . . . different," said Mr. Kemper, his lack of sleep clear in his voice. "I don't want to say mentally challenged, but I'm afraid it's true. Not mentally disabled," he fast added, likely seeing a look of anger on his wife's face. "Not that. But Ellen, his whole life he's talked about seeing things. Hearing things. He got better these past few years, but still his teachers are always telling us he needs help."

Mrs. Kemper lowered her head. Her words came out quietly. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that it's probably time we realized they're right. This . . . this horrible . . ." Mr. Kemper's voice caught in his throat and he stopped. For an awful moment, Jack wondered if his father was going to cry. But the man didn't. He regained himself and said, "This accident is the last thing. Jack thinking that he sees things is what caused it. His brain told him something was out there but it was wrong. Nothing was there. And Kyle was worried about his brother so he followed. And what does he see? Jack sitting on the edge of that hole. What would possess him to sit there? If he hadn't—"

"So you're saying he needs to see a psychiatrist?" Jack's mother interrupted. She wanted to get to the point.

Mr. Kemper sighed. His shoulders slumped. He played with a pen that was resting on the table, turning it over in his fingers. "Yes. It's time he got help. Something is not right with him. I don't know exactly what—but we've overlooked it for too long. There are medicines that can help kids like Jack."

Suddenly, Mrs. Kemper scooted back from the table and got up from her chair. Her voice rising, she angrily said, "What do you mean, kids like Jack? Because he's got an imagination you think he's crazy? My son does not have a problem!"

"Ellen!" cried Mr. Kemper. He, too, got out of his chair.

Mrs. Kemper went to the sink and turned toward it. Stared at the faucet. The kitchen light flickered. Slowly, she beat a fist on the countertop. "There is nothing wrong with my child."

For a moment, Jack watched his father. It looked like the man didn't know what to do. How awkward it was to see such a big, strong man, the man Jack had known his whole life to be able to solve all problems, with such a look of uncertainty on his face. Mr. Kemper looked totally helpless as he moved his eyes from the floor to his wife. "Ellen," he repeated, though quiet and soft this time. "It's got nothing to do with an imagination. I—I'm worried about Jack almost more than I am about Kyle. He endangered his brother's life. Not on purpose, but he still did. I don't want anything else like this to happen. This shouldn't have even happened."

Jack saw his mother's shoulders begin to shake. Then her whole back and arms began to tremble. She was crying, he realized, though he couldn't see her face.

Without a word, Mr. Kemper went to her and turned her toward him. Put his arms around her.

"I can't stand it," said Mrs. Kemper. Her husband's sweater muffled her words. "This shouldn't have happened. It can't. Things like this don't happen." She was trying to say more, but her words were lost in her sobs.

Jack saw tears on his father's cheeks as the man closed his eyes. They squeezed out. The boy lifted a hand to his own face. Moisture was there, on his skin, as well. He didn't understand. His insides were a mixture of dread at seeing his parents cry and sadness that they believed the accident was his fault. Maybe it had been; he didn't know anymore. He didn't know anything, he thought, as he moved silently away from the kitchen, unable to bear the sight of his mother and father in tears. Unable to comprehend that they couldn't fix this problem. That this wasn't just going to go away. Kyle was not going to wake up better and Jack was not going to go unblamed. His world had turned terribly frightening, and Jack didn't understand it.

He was in his room, closing his door and moving silently to his bed, when he felt something brush against his leg.

Leaping quickly onto his mattress, Jack wiped the water out of his eyes so he could see into the gloomy darkness and peered at the floor. Something had been there—he was certain of it. Felt like a cat, he thought, though he'd never owned one. Like a cat rubbing against his bare leg.

That was when he recalled the thing he'd seen in his brother's hospital room. The cat-like shadow on the foot of the bed. Whatever it was, Jack was certain it had followed Kyle home.