"Go into the kitchen," ordered Mr. Black as he removed Jude's coat and unbuttoned his collar. "There's a telephone near the table. I want you to bring it to me so I can call emergency services."

"No!" I blurted. The old man turned to me sharply. I had to say something. "I . . . I know what he needs." There was no use in lying. If I wanted Jude to return to normal, I had to get him to play. Doctors and nurses couldn't help him; only his music could. "Do you have a piano?"

"What?" Mr. Black was blazingly angry. "Get me my phone, you fool! Now!"

I jumped, but I was not going to let him scare me into a mistake. Jude needed a piano, and he needed one immediately. "Listen to me!" I cried. "Please . . . I know this sounds very strange to you, but that's the only thing that is going to help him. He needs to--"

"Don't speak rubbish to me! Can't you see this boy is seriously in danger?" Mr. Black got to his feet and came toward me. I backed up a few steps in fear, but the old man did not touch me. He moved out into hall, saying, "I'll get it myself! Don't touch anything until I get back."

Frantic, I went to Jude when Mr. Black had vanished into another room. He was still breathing, and he had opened his eyes, but they were blank. Panic set into me. My eyes scanned the room, but I could see that there was no instrument of any sort there. It was a library with bookshelves, a massive fireplace, and a dark wooden desk. Anxiously, I jogged out of that room and across the hall into another. Much to my relief, I found exactly what I needed. It had never occurred to me that Mr. Black wouldn't have a piano, but now that I had found one, I realized how foolish it had been to assume that he would. I'd just gotten lucky.

"Come on, Jude." I urged him on, not even sure if he heard my words. With difficulty, I got him to stand up. Then I pulled him across the hall. I noticed that the closer we got to the piano, the more Jude was able to move on his own. Soon he was pushing me away and seating himself on the bench. He lifted the horribly dusty lid off the piano keys and closed his eyes. I fell into the nearest chair, bracing myself for what I knew would soon be echoing throughout the house.

If I had thought that Jude's music could never match what he'd played the last time we'd been near Mr. Black's house, I was proved exceedingly wrong. The most bitter beauty I could imagine was suddenly surrounding me. Thoughts of where I was or whom I was with flew far away. My mind wandered through a battlefield where death and grief were soaking into the ground and where only sorrow grew from the ruins of life. I felt swaths of shadows falling around me, sinking into abysmal darkness. And I wasn't even certain of myself. I was not a person or a body; I was only a mind. All I knew were random thoughts of fear and doubt that flitted across whatever inner eyes I was struggling to see with. Canyons of gloom eclipsed shuddering stars. No moon guided me in my black wanderings. No pinpoint of light hovered above to give me hope of escape.

Eons could have passed for all that I knew. It seemed that suddenly I was straining to see through fog instead of complete darkness, smoke rather than shadow. I began to feel my body again, and I recognized the intense sorrow welling up inside me. When my chest heaved with a near sob, I felt it. I knew I was returning to Mosspond, and I almost regretted it. I heard the piano playing. The notes were low and sweeping; they were calming after the storm they'd been through. I felt each as if they were tracing the beats of my heart. I became afraid that if Jude stopped playing my body would stop working. I would shut down entirely.

But Jude did stop. He had to. His own strength was gone from him, exiting through his fingers as they touched each piano key. And when he did end his music, I did not perish. I was able to open my eyes. They were not wet. I had thought I'd been crying, but I hadn't. There was no sign of tears on my face.

From where I sat, however, I could see the side of Jude. The entire front of his shirt was dark from the tears that he had let loose. His cheeks were plastered with their salty remains. He sat on the piano bench, his dark hair pressed against his forehead because he'd been sweating in his efforts. My eyes caught sight of a clock on the wall; it read five-thirty. I gasped. We had left for Mr. Black's house at about two.

When Mr. Black's name crossed my mind, I remembered him. Glancing toward the door, I drew in a breath. The old man was on the floor, his back against the wall. In one hand he held the telephone receiver, which was beeping as a reminder that it was off the hook. His knuckles were white from holding it so hard.

Not one of us moved. The silence caved in on us like heavy snow. I knew that something had to be done. It was late, and I should be heading home. Cautiously, I slipped out of my chair and moved toward Jude. I went to him first because Mr. Black was far more formidable. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I startled him out of a daze. "How do you feel?" I asked him.

He looked at me in slight confusion. His fingers flexed in and out, as if stretching toward the piano keys. "All right," he replied to my relief. Then he added, "But I can feel it coming back. Slowly . . . but it's coming."

My stomach fluttered with nerves. "OK. Maybe we should leave, then."

Jude was perplexed. "I . . . I don't know whether . . . I want to . . . I mean, what if . . ." he stuttered. He didn't know what he was trying to tell me, and I wasn't sure what he was trying to say. Things hadn't gone quite as right as he hoped they would, I assumed. What had he expected? I didn't even know what I had expected. Did we think Mr. Black was going to unlock the mystery of Jude's music? Did we believe that some extreme revelation would take place, and everything would be understood and cured? None of that had happened. Nothing had taken place at all, except that Jude had gotten sick, and he had played. That was all, but it was not a special feat. He got sick and played music practically every day; he and I both knew that.

In our disappointment, we began to move to the front hall. Both of us had nearly forgotten Mr. Black. Even the grandeur of his massive house wasn't enough to gain our attention as we made our way toward the door. Only when a voice called feebly behind us, "Wait . . . come back," did we remember exactly whose home we were in.

At the sound of Mr. Black's voice, Jude straightened up. He turned carefully around, and when he saw the old man rising to his feet in the doorway of the room we'd just come out of, he froze. Mr. Black stepped closer to us. He looked tired, but there was also intense wonder in his face. "What's your name, boy?" he asked Jude, who told it to him. "And you—" The man pointed at me with a shaking hand. "You're the one I saw prowling around a few days ago."

"I wasn't prowling!" I protested. There was more that I would've liked to say in my defense, but I didn't have the guts to go on.

Besides, Mr. Black held up a hand to stop me. "I am not concerned with it," he said of my prowling. Then he turned back to Jude. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

Jude shrugged. He didn't have any more answers for Mr. Black than he'd had for me. He looked anxiously away from the man. "I just do it," he added.

After a pause, Mr. Black nodded. "Well, you have real talent. I . . . I want you to come back and play here again. I won't touch the instrument myself – haven't opened it in years, in fact. It would do me well to hear it used right, and you're worthy of playing it if I ever heard anyone. Just you. I want just you to come and play. Will you do that, if I pay you?"

Jude looked to me. I didn't have anything to say to him; the decision was not mine to make. So suddenly the cranky old man before us had shifted from attack mode to beg mode. He was nearly on his hands and knees asking Jude to come play his piano. What I wondered was whether Jude physically could do it. I doubted that he would be able to walk right up to Mr. Black's house and stroll right in. His body wouldn't let him, I was sure.

Jude must have had fears similar to mine. "I don't want your money. And I can't come unless Nat comes." He spoke very decidedly. I was impressed by the force of his words. He really meant what he said. Flurries of pride sprinkled inside me.

Mr. Black didn't really like me. I could tell it from the cold, disappointed stare he aimed in my direction after he heard what Jude said. But he really wanted to hear more music. I knew how he felt, because since the first time I'd heard Jude play I had only wanted to be exposed to more. Finally, the man said, "That's fine. Both of you come, then. As much as you can . . . but only to play. Don't expect anything else."

Jude agreed, then he took hold of my arm and pulled me toward the door. He had been the one who so desperately wanted to come into the house, so I was confused at why he seemed eager to leave it now. Very soon, both of us were outside, walking back through the pines. The sky was already darkening, and it felt as if we'd never been inside Mr. Black's house at all. The air was cold and I was tired – terribly tired all of a sudden. I knew that Jude had to be too. All I wanted to do was go back to my house, but Jude surprised me by telling me to stop when we reached the old stump.

I didn't want to get on top of it, but Jude did. He climbed right up and then reached down to help me. I had no choice but to join him on top of the thing.

"I hate that place," he said immediately after I set foot on the ancient rings. "I don't ever want to go back."

"Then why did you say you would?" I cried. I hated Mr. Black's house too, no matter how neat it looked on the inside. "Why didn't you just tell him no?"

Jude rubbed his pale forehead. "I couldn't. I have to go back, even if I don't want to."

Sighing, I threw up my arms in a sign of exasperation. "Fine. But I really don't think I'm going to be able to drag you up to that house every day. If you're going to get that sick whenever we get near it, then I don't think you should go. You could hurt yourself. What if one day Mr. Black doesn't come and help you inside? There'd be no way that I could get you back through the woods. You're probably risking your life every time you set foot near his house."

"But Nat . . ." Jude looked at me. There were a million questions in his eyes, and I knew that I couldn't answer them. That hurt me more than the cold air ever could. "I just think I have to go. But I'll only do it if you come too. I think . . . I feel like there's something there that I have to know. And even though I hate that place and that man, if I don't go back, I'll never find out if I'm right."

I wanted to leave. The sad remains of the music he'd played that day were eating empty holes through my thoughts. "I'll go back if you want to," I told him at last. I reminded myself that he was the only person I cared about, and I would have to continue going along with his plans if I wanted to find his cure.

Jude didn't smile, but he was satisfied.

Before we slid down off the stump, I stopped him. Quietly against the listening silence of the woods, I asked, "Do you even remember what you felt when we got close to the house? You were entirely out of it. You couldn't even move on your own. Do you remember anything about it?"

His eyes got a blank glaze over them. "Not really," he replied. "Just gray and heaviness. That's all, until I felt my fingers on the keys."

When I got back to my house, my mother was (once again) worried. I hated that she got so nervous about where I was; it annoyed me. Right when I walked in the door she came up to me, saying, "Nat! Where have you been? You were here this morning, and then, when I went to ask if you'd like to go into town for lunch, you were gone! Where in the world did you go without telling me?" Not only was she worried, but she was also angry.

"Nowhere," I grudgingly retorted. I started up to my room, but she held me back.

"I'm tired of your running around, Nat. This isn't the first time you've disappeared for an afternoon. Now either you sit down and tell me what's going on or you'll be getting real used to being in your room, where I can keep an eye on you. Do you hear me?"

I didn't want to lie to my mother, even if I was annoyed with her. So I knew that I couldn't do what she wanted. I couldn't sit down with her and talk about where I'd been, because then I might have to lie about it, and since I didn't think I should lie I figured it would be better for me to just not say anything at all. But my mother didn't quite understand my reasoning. I tried to explain it to her, but she only grew more upset. "Upstairs . . . now!" she cried. "You're in your room until I say otherwise. Go on!"

I let every word she spoke slide off my back like drops of water. She couldn't threaten me. I wasn't scared of her. If she wasn't going to care enough about me to try and see things my way then why should I listen to her?

When I reached my room, I slammed my door so hard that, instead of shutting, it bounced right back open. Suddenly, my sister Vanessa was standing there. "Don't be so childish, Nat!" she yelled at me, the phone receiver in one of her hands. "I'm trying to have a very important conversation here and all of your noise is making it just a little difficult for me to hear!"

I wanted to say: And I'm sure your screaming in that person's ear is fixing everything! But I didn't. I held back. My sister wasn't worth arguing with. I just flopped onto my bed.

"Will both of you be quiet!" I heard Allison call from somewhere. "I'm trying to get some homework done! I can't concentrate in this house."

'I'm not even making noise!' I wanted to howl, but once more, I said nothing. Vanessa slammed my door, and I heard her and Allison arguing some more out in the hall. They all cared about such stupid, non-important things. There were people who needed help, who were sick and hurting, and my family was only concerned with themselves.