When Jill and I went to the local newspaper, we were extremely disappointed to find that they did not have copies of that missing week's papers either. As Jill said to me in exasperation, "If the actual paper doesn't have copies of what they wrote, then who on earth would? They're the source of the information. Why wouldn't they have copies of everything? Did they just forget to make any for that week?" She was angry, and I was amused at her anger. I had real reason to be frustrated, but Jill didn't even know why I wanted those newspapers.

By the time we left the local paper, I was nearly positive that those missing sections were about the accident in Moss Lake. First, because the time period seemed about right. And second, because I couldn't ever seem to find anything I wanted. It just made sense that the articles I couldn't see were the exact ones I needed. Everything always seemed to go wrong. I had learned to accept that fact a long time ago, after my father went.

"We can go and visit every old person who's lived here a very long time," Jill suggested. "Maybe some people save their newspapers. You never do know; there are lots of eccentric old ladies and men."

I thought of Mrs. McBride. She was certainly an eccentric old woman. But I was ready to give up on the articles. "I don't want to talk to anybody. Just forget about it."

"You aren't going to give up, are you?" There was a slight threat in her words.

"So what if I am?" I replied in irritation. "I don't even care about this anymore. We aren't going to find anything, so why should I bother? Nothing ever goes right. That's just how it is. I hate being me. I hate never being able to do anything right!"

Much to my shock, Jill smiled. Then, she began to laugh. Her laughter came out like a small fish surfacing in a mass of bubbles. She laughed so hard at me that she fell doubled-over onto the grass. Her small body shook with the outburst. She couldn't stop herself for the world. "Oh Nat! You are so funny!" she cried in between breaths. "I've never heard someone say such ridiculous things! I didn't know you felt so sorry for yourself."

Rather than cause me to cheer up, Jill's laughter only infuriated me. She was making fun of me in my hard-earned misery. How dare she? I felt hot liquid creep into my eyes and it upset me more. I hated her. I hated myself, and I hated her. I was just plain tired of her sensitiveness, her compassion and joyfulness. Unique or not, Jill was becoming too much for me to put up with. I was too reasonable for her!

Jill didn't even call after me as I left her there. Part of me cared; some microscopic atom in my makeup was severely hurt that she didn't tell me to wait. But the rest of me knew that if she'd followed, I'd only have moved faster.

I went back to my house and trooped up to my room. I passed my sisters on the way up. Allison was practicing her flute, and Vanessa was on the phone talking ridiculously to someone. I couldn't stand hearing them. I wasn't even willing to put up with my mother, whose questions about my day I left unanswered.

Seating myself at my window, I looked across the town to Mr. Black's house. I thought of the mean way he spoke to Martin Switchett, who was only being kind to him, and of how he'd yelled at me after catching me on his land. Why was that old man so cranky? I was determined to find out, and I felt certain that it all had something to do with the accident that had happened on Moss Lake. Mr. Black allowed everyone to enjoy his land, Mrs. McBride had said, until the accident occurred. Then he'd shut himself in his house and told everyone to stay away. Everything centered on that accident.

I thought that Mrs. McBride had told me a little bit more, but I couldn't remember everything she'd said. I would have to go back and speak with her, I decided.

But Mrs. McBride was not home when I crossed the street to her house that day. In fact, she was gone the entire week. She'd left to visit a relative, and I was angry. How could she have gone away when I most needed to speak with her? Over the next few school days, the hostility only built inside of me. I was mad at Jill, at Mrs. McBride, and at myself. I couldn't think straight I was so angry with the world. Everybody was against me, I felt. Everybody except Jude. And because I had nowhere else to go, I went to see him.

"We're going," I said directly when I spotted him outside in his backyard. He didn't ask me where; he only followed.

Within half an hour we had reached my chosen destination. We were extremely near Mr. Black's house before Jude spoke. "I thought . . ." he began.

I turned and looked at him. Even though I knew that this was what he wanted to do, there was real terror in his face. "Don't worry," I said sharply. "I know what I'm doing. Just come on." My anger consumed me. I wasn't going to let Jude say no now. He was the only person I cared about. Everyone else – Jillian, Mrs. McBride, my family – was too concerned with their own lives to bother paying attention to mine. If Jude had left me at that point, I don't know what I would have done. But he did not leave. He trusted me completely, and that gave me a sense of power as well as one of fear.

We kept on toward the house. Soon, the bare pine trees were in sight. I knew that Jude was struggling. He was several paces behind me, and when I looked at him I could tell that each step he took was hurting. I didn't know how it hurt, but I did know that very quickly Jude would not be able to move easily on his own. I went to his side and took hold of one of his thin arms. "You can do it," I encouraged him, although I knew he probably didn't hear my words. His eyes were not focusing on anything in particular. Our first step on the fallen needles was difficult. Jude's body wasn't moving on its own; I had to pull him, and even though he was thinner than a normal human, I found him heavier than I'd guessed he would be. Still, I kept on, because I wanted to.

I dragged Jude nearer to the house. He couldn't breathe properly. He couldn't even keep his eyes open. I wondered whether he would die if I left him there alone in the pines. That seemed likely. My intention had been to pull him up onto Mr. Black's porch, but I soon realized that that wasn't going to be possible. I'd counted on Jude at least being able to walk when I helped him, but he was completely unable to move.

I dropped his arm. Jude fell the rest of the way onto the ground (he had already been halfway there when I was dragging him). Fear pounded at my temples; I worried that he was in a state that couldn't be helped. What if he really had gone into a coma? But I saw his chest moving in and out sharply. He was alive, at least, and I had to act fast if I wanted him to stay that way.

I ran across the paved circle of driveway and up onto Mr. Black's porch. I tried to pull courage out of somewhere deep inside me, but it was more worry over Jude than striking bravery that forced me to knock on the house's door. "Help!" I shouted as loud as I could. My voice turned hoarse in the cold. "Help! Please! My friend is sick! Please help him! He's going to die!" I wasn't sure that Jude was going to die, but I knew that if I wanted to get that old man's attention I would have to act drastically.

I banged so hard that my fingers tingled with numbness. I kicked, even. All the noise I made was worth it, though, when the door flung inward and I nearly toppled into the front hall.

"What's this?" snarled Mr. Black. The red-hot rage in his eyes was almost enough to make me shrink. But I didn't forget Jude.

"Sir, help, please!" I puffed. Pointing across the driveway, I went on. "My friend . . . something is wrong with him! Please help him! I don't know what's happening to him!"

Not even frightening Mr. Black was cold enough to leave a sick boy lying on the ground. Just as I'd hoped he would, the old man rushed down from his porch and over to Jude. "Get over here!" he called over his shoulder to me. "Give me a hand!" He arrived at the spot where Jude had fallen. The pale boy still lay sprawled there, but he had moved slightly. I saw that he had pulled his legs closer up to his chest, as if trying to protect himself from something.

When Mr. Black hoisted Jude off of the ground, the boy began to try and say something. He muttered words that neither Mr. Black nor I could understand; they were too quiet. I felt my stomach shudder with uneasiness. I was risking Jude's safety because I was frustrated with the world. Was that right? Somehow, I didn't think it was. I found myself saying a quick prayer that he wouldn't be hurt.

Mr. Black really didn't need much help from me. Even though he was old, he was strong, and he easily pulled Jude up onto his porch and through the front door. I followed him inside timidly, and at once I noticed the signs of wealth. The front hall alone reminded me of something that would be in a castle, with its hardwood floors and immense stairway. Mr. Black was a man with a good deal of money. A wave of anger surged through me: How could anyone with a lot of money be miserable? They should be grateful for what they had!

"Get over here," Mr. Black called from a room to my right. I'd been staring in wonder at his house while he'd been helping Jude into a chair. As I moved slowly into the room, excitement mingled with my apprehension. I had succeeded this far. Jude and I were in the house of Mr. Black.