Night brought strange things into Jack's room. His mind always sought to piece together a process for mending his family; consequently, his dreams became far more distorted than they'd been before visiting Miss Collins.

He wanted to speak with her again, but he hadn't found the time, because Grace hadn't been able to go after school.

And he couldn't go without her.

Darkness seeped into his dreams. Without Grace. Without Miss Collins. The dark waters on the landing and by Kyle's door that Jack had to wade through every time to get to his room. The chill he got from walking past his brother's door, knowing that there was just . . . nothing . . . beyond it. Emptiness. Consuming emptiness, like a black hole that had sucked out all of Kyle's insides and left him a shell. The thought of opening the door (which Jack hadn't done since that first time when he'd stopped his medicine), falling into it, being lost. He was so frightened to look into Kyle's room. What would be there? How could his brother go into that place every day and night and come out alive? Kyle wasn't alive anymore. He couldn't possibly be!

Jack sat up in bed, shattered whatever half-formed dreams he'd been having, cast them into the darkness of the night. He was breathing hard, for reasons he didn't know, but suddenly, his entire body was on alert. His room was very quiet, except for a soft underlayer of whispering, much quieter than it'd been before he'd gone to bed. Nothing was moving in his room, either—no shadows. They were probably clustered under the bed or in his closet.

What had his sleep thoughts been about? He couldn't quite recall. They were entirely fading, as dreams do.

As he stared blindly into the dullness of his room, Jack sensed something near his window. Turning slowly, he saw that it was the black-cat shadow, resting right below his window, shifting slightly, but not flicking away from his gaze. He saw it, as it sat still, for the first time, although his eyes could make out nothing more than its black shape. He recalled how startled he'd been when, so many weeks ago, it had brushed past him and actually made physical contact. And he remembered how he'd loathed the thing. Whatever it was, he hated it, because he didn't believe it to be welcome. It was some presence not meant to be in his home, and it unnerved him to see the thing sitting so comfortably at his window, taking no care if it was looked at this time.

"Go away," Jack whispered fiercely into the night.

The thing didn't seem to notice his voice. Shifted a bit, but no more than it had already been doing.

The boy knew his words had never affected or made him understand the unreal things he came into contact with. It was as if they were part of one world, and he was part of another, and they just happened to inhabit the same space. But they never interacted. Never actually touched or listened to one another. Until that time the pit had called his name, and until the thing had brushed past Jack as he sat on the back porch . . .

"Why are you here?" he tried again, still focusing on the thing, as if focusing on it would force it to hear him.

Still, nothing. No movement from it to indicate it had listened to or even heard his words.

Anger growing in him—anger for being unable to know what everything was when he needed understanding more than ever—the boy slid off of his bed. Took a step toward the thing; it shuddered but stayed where it was. Only a few feet away from it, Jack was more frustrated to find that he still couldn't quite see it. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, "What are you?" And he leapt toward the shadow, uncertain of his own intent, knowing only that he hated it—it wasn't supposed to be here. It had probably been the cause of everything!

Quick as lightning, the thing darted up the wall and out of Jack's reach. The boy paused, his breath heavy, and stood staring up at its dim form. Strangely, it didn't resemble a cat or even an animal as it crouched in the crease where the wall met the ceiling. Jack wasn't certain what it was like, all of a sudden, but he was uneasily aware that the thing had been listening to him, was still listening and, in fact, was keenly observing him as he stood staring up at it. Whatever it was, it did possess a self-awareness, a will, a mind, if there were no other words to describe it. Standing there, Jack was certain that the shadow had been aware of him all along, that it was still aware of him—that it was not just one of the strange little black spots or bright spots he chanced to see yet never interacted with. This thing—whatever it was—was different.

The whispering, which had been so soft, died out completely, and Jack was startled by the sudden quiet.

And then, in a motion that almost appeared as if the thing was reaching out toward him, the shadow made a sound. Some strange, guttural vibration that Jack couldn't understand but could hear, and the noise frightened him into freezing where he stood. Whatever the sound meant, the boy had felt it in himself, felt it tingle in his skin, rattle his bones. The thing was . . . no—it couldn't be! . . . and yet . . . Jack was sure that the shadow was attempting to communicate with him!

Blood pounded in his temples; his own breathing became nearly too loud to bear. The thing sat with part of itself outstretched, still seemingly reaching out toward the boy, and he stood as still as stone, waiting to see what would happen next.

Moments passed. In the cool, quiet darkness, they felt like eons. In that time, Jack studied the deep shadow before him, wondering how, for the first time, he was able to keep focused on it without it darting away. And wondering, also, why he still couldn't quite make out what it was, what its shape resembled, or what it was composed of. It was more than a shadow—yes, much more material—and yet it was less than solid. It was dark in a way that the boy couldn't entirely grasp, as if its being was made up of layers and layers of black that held a hundred thousand levels. It was impossible to really understand, but at the same time, it was nothing more than a splotch of dark that somehow existed in his bedroom.

Staring at the thing, waiting for it to make sound again, wondering if he'd imagined it all anyway, Jack was startled to feel a new presence enter the house. Flow upstairs to his room. Permeate his heart.

A creak echoed from downstairs.

A familiar voice spoke something from below.

Could it be . . . ?

The boy knew. Knew without having to see. He tore his eyes from the shadow before him and left his room, because he knew that down at the front door, a man stood. A man that had been gone for some time now and who Jack had feared he'd never see again. A man that had disappeared so suddenly from his life, though he hadn't taken notice of it at the time. A man whom the family needed now more than ever and who would help Jack in his task of mending his life.

Downstairs stood the man that he knew as father.

The door of Jack's bedroom swung silently outward as the boy dashed down the stairs. Inside his room, the dim bluey-black of night closed in. Little ink-blots of dark seeped out of the invisible cracks in the air and began to cluster in the corners against the walls. The whispering voices of the unseen resumed their current of sound. Hovering momentarily in the now-empty room, the shadowy presence withdrew its extended portion and gathered itself up. In that part of it that resembled a human mind, a human sense of self, it was momentarily pleased. And with one sharp, flickering movement, it zipped across the floor, flicked up toward the ceiling of the room, and evaporated into thin air.