All her adventurous misdemeanors of the latter part of the week slowly spilled onto her dreams – like a flute of champagne – in a kaleidoscope of glass and rich incertitude. Amy woke up, unable to feel the tips of her fingers. A blissful, numbing warmth had enveloped her. 

With her feet out of the sheets and her head tucked under them, she searched in vain for a cool spot; idly pondering over the events that had occurred. Amy's heart was a stranger that faded Saturday morning, craving a million things it couldn't have.

Her bed wouldn't have any of that tosh. It clung to her stubbornly, and whispered, "You're all mine today, baby."

Caleb reclined in the window seat, a careless arm slung over one bent knee. He was humming a song whose lyrics he couldn't quite remember, the white sheer curtains billowing around him in the light breeze. Amy spied on him, wondering if he missed tracing smiles on misty glass panes.

He had faithfully stayed another night, quietly observing her. Fewer words were traded.

Something felt different.

Caleb turned and caught her staring. Shrugging indifferently, he moved closer to the bed and began tickling Amy's feet. "Could you please turn the page of that book? I've been up all night wondering why Gus had to die," he said, pointing to the floor.

Amy lazily sat up, fighting the hold her bed had on her. Caleb straightened and cleared his throat. 

She pushed her messy hair backwards and hopped off the bed. Stretching, Amy civilly excused herself to the washroom. She religiously avoided the mirror, choosing to close her eyes instead, as she showered.

Amy heard his voice over the sound of the flowing water. "So when are you going to tell him about me?"

Frowning, she padded back into the room, wrapped in a large yellow towel. Amy twirled her finger, gesturing for him to turn around. "Whatever do you mean?"

Caleb huffed and placed both his hands over his eyes, covering them like a little kid. "You know your boyfriend won't like the hot little thing we have going."

"He is not my boyfriend," she scoffed, toweling her hair. Ashton had made that abundantly clear.

Dressing casually in a cream top and a long rosewood-colored cardigan, Amy pretended not to notice the growing spaces between his intertwined fingers. Rummaging under the blankets, she dug out her spiral-bound notebook.

Caleb raised his palm solemnly. "I, a whole stadium full of people and your glorious, just-fucked hair from last night would sorely like to disagree."

He never missed an opening for borderline harassment. Watering her overdramatic suspicion, Amy believed he was consigned to her by a vindictive deity – in accordance with some kind of twisted, Greek mythology fetish. Undeniably, with his cobalt eyes, statuesque build and rugged appeal, Caleb Dawson looked fit for the part.

Amy scowled. "Just give me a minute to think."

When the telltale sound of pen scratches reached his ears, Caleb walked closer to her. "What are you doing?" he asked, peeking into her book.

"You'll know soon enough I guess," Amy said, noncommittally. Sweeping her hair away from her face, she gave him the sunniest of smirks. "Guinea pig."

The circuit from her room to the kitchen and back again was filled with loud, persistent, childlike protests from him, and it almost ruined her breakfast. Amy spooned her Froot Loops, randomly jotting down points in her special notebook, and occasionally jerking it away from Caleb's prying eyes. She meticulously prepared her bedroom for the preliminary stage of the operations.

Amy fished out her video recorder and balanced it on her desk, using dusty textbooks to prop it up facing the room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she asked him to do the same.

"Palm up, keep your hand in the air please," Amy said and began gradually approaching it with hers. When it was near enough to trigger the force that kept them apart, she felt the now familiar, uncomfortable burn. Next, Amy bade him to try touching her hand while she kept it steady. No matter what the angle, the outcome remained uncompromisingly the same.

"Don't you feel anything when you come close to me?" she inquired.

"Apart from the butterflies in my stomach?"

Amy stared at him.

"Jesus, lighten up," he muttered, interpreting her look correctly. "No, I don't feel anything. I don't think I even remember how anything felt anymore. Like rough, smooth, hot, and cold have just become words now."

Amy glanced at her notes. How discreetly he chose his words, flinging the most terrible of declarations conversationally wrapped in the aftermath of a joke.

She curled her fingers into a fist and aimed a punch at Caleb's palm. Dead set on her mark, she was concentrating on how her arm felt this time. Long before she reached him, Amy felt her hand diverge from its intended path, like it had a mind of its own, and hit empty air next to him.

"If the approach constitutes of minimum force, closest contact is possible," she deduced. "But the second the force increases, the scope of an absolute miss also increases in tandem." Now all that was left was the impossibly whacked-up 'why' part.

"Well, I already knew that happens," Caleb drawled.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you think I am so slow and deliberate all the time? If I tried to come running at you full speed, I would stray unintentionally and crash onto something else."

"I gotta see this."

"Why can't you just take my word for it?"

"It's not like you'll get hurt when you fall, you feel nothing."

Caleb looked at her murderously, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I will get back at you for this, Irvine," he swore, poking at her shoulder.

Amy stood in one corner of her room, waiting for Caleb to do his thing. The whole scene was starting to hilariously resemble that iconic one from Dirty Dancing where at the end Jennifer Grey jumps into Patrick Swayze's arms and he lifts her up in the air. Never in a million years had she imagined this is how she would eventually end up doing it.

Amy patted her knees. "C'mon boyo, this is it."

"You're ridiculous."

Caleb rolled his eyes and came galumphing at her, leaping into the air for the last few feet and into her arms. At the last second, she squealed and turned around. "No, I can't do it!" 

Amy waited for the impact but it never came; he went sailing past her and landed on his front, quiet as a kitten, five feet to her right.

"Are you happy now?" Caleb asked in a muffled voice, his head resting dismally against the carpet.

"Immensely," Amy snickered, shaking with glee as she wrote down her observations.

Caleb groaned and picked himself up. "Anything else, princess?"

"Now, just sit right there in the middle of the room."

Amy spent the next hour, hurling numerous objects at him as he sat adorably, trying to catch them. From the smallest of her belongings to the largest ones, everything missed. Cushions and pillowcases haphazardly piled up, books tumbled past, and even poor Bear suffered a rather rude fall from grace; no matter how sharply Amy tried targeting Caleb's dumb grinning face. Lastly, she settled on being creative with the blankets and sheets.

"Do you know that story 'The Invisible Man'?"

"Vaguely," he mused. "Have we done that in school?"

"Yeah, so he manages to change the human body's refractive index to that of air so that it neither absorbs nor reflects light and thus becomes –"

Caleb rolled his wrist impatiently. "Hurry up, you science junkie."

Amy felt snubbed but quickly hid her inner emotions. "He wears this long-sleeved overcoat and gloves. His face is hidden entirely by bandages."

"I get where you are going with this, but there is a slight problem –"

"The 'Caleb Effect', I know."

"It sounds so much cooler when you say it," he smirked. "So, when are we discussing the effect I have on you?"

"How about lunch, quarter-to-never?"

Caleb's good humor was seeping onto her and she was grinning, despite herself. Amy carried a bed sheet and tried bringing it closer to him, before releasing it. The sheet just flapped down strangely, regardless of the distance, like an inconspicuous piece of cloth blowing in the wind.

"Well, there goes your literary fantasy," Caleb said, rumpling his own hair.

"This has got to work," she grumbled, picking up the damned sheet. Amy used both hands to grab its ends and tried parachuting the cloth around his head; so that it would have no choice but to fall on him. She accidentally came too close to Caleb in the process.

Strictly speaking, Amy did not even brush against the top of his head but that didn't stop the pervert from wolf-whistling. She gave up and the sheet fluttered uselessly to the floor.

Amy checked the flowchart she had drawn, turning a blind eye to the room that couldn't have possibly looked shabbier if a rhinoceros had hula danced inside. Sighing, she made her way downstairs, marking her failure despondently.

Caleb trailed behind, launching a fresh fusillade of grievances. "... I think your whole scheme is undemocratic. Shouldn't I get something out of this too?"

"What do you want?"

He placed a finger on his chin carefully, his sparkly eyes skywards. Amy's heart burst like an overripe fruit, when the tip of his lovely nose moved so very gently – she thought she missed it. That gorgeous thing was so hard to ignore, it could be classified as a teenage girl's version of the eighth wonder of the world.

"How about... for every experiment of yours I get some questions answered."

Excited about the prospect of newer stakes, Amy grabbed her scruffy toque and pitched in her own terms. "Alright, but you will not grumble about what I ask of you for the rest of the day."

"Deal." Caleb nodded.

They proceeded to attempt the slowest fist bump in history. Amy pushed the front door open. "Since I got mine before, I'll let you get yours."

Caleb suppressed a smile and sat on the front porch steps, exactly like he had that stormy night. Amy went behind a hydrangea bush to gather the lime-green water hose they used in emergencies when the sprinklers broke down.

"Why were you so upset about Anaxan?" Caleb asked.

She pursed her lips, cursing him. He had a knack for making Amy regret her decisions, often in record time. "I lost a cousin to it," she said. "Caleb, it destroys lives everywhere."

His eyes lost their harsh edge. "I am sorry, Amy."

She offered him a small smile, imagining a hint of obscured context in his apology. "Thank you."

Just a few years ago, the newly synthesized drug had turned on its creators, not unlike countless scientific inventions before it. Anaxan induced wildly pleasurable hallucinations that were so addictive that most people turned psychotic after its consumption and subsequent withdrawal. The federal government had actively scoured the country for abusers and it quickly turned into a brutal witch hunt. The outward symptoms were horrific and it made identifying offenders simple; as if the hysteria wasn't obvious enough.

Amy dragged the pipe out. "You called it XP. Why?"

"The most popular reason is that it's the expression that the drug brings on your face," he said, using his hands to emphasize. "Which is bullshit, of course. The real one is that it was created by a person called Xenophiles or something."

"Xenos Pliae Bukator," she corrected, walking back to the rusty tap to turn it on.

"Exactly. May I ask what you're doing?"

The water from the lime green pipe sputtered and died in Amy's hands as she looked at it in confusion. Then it hit her that she was stepping on the old, dusty thing. But before Amy could take her foot off, the pipe burst from the other end.

"Aw, c'mon!" she cried, as the jet stream of water from the tap taunted her from the other side, while Caleb doubled over laughing, his dark eyes a lighter blue in the sunlight. Amy couldn't remember the last time she had used a water hose in the garden, but she needed the damn thing that morning.

And what a morning it was! The sky was a guileless blue, the clouds allowing the sun to warm the earth after what felt like centuries. The autumn trees glittered in the sunlight, waltzing with the waggish breeze, their leaves escaping into neat suburban lawns. Children hurriedly rode their tasseled bikes past Amy, avoiding her line of sight. They were Leigh's schoolmates and rightly terrified. 

Caleb moseyed over to her, out of the shade the house provided. 

"Do you need any help carrying out your infernal experimentations?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his glibness.

"What is wrong with this thing?" Amy shook the limp pipe in disgust.

For what seemed like the twentieth time, she marched over to the tap and reattached the tube. Amy stayed to observe the water flowing through the other end to avoid any further funny business.

"Now, stand before the hedge while I direct the water –" she paused, suspiciously watching the hose cough. "I'll point towards you –" another splutter. "Oh for crying out loud, stop giggling!"

"Am not!" Caleb grinned, trying to cover his mouth with his hand. "Okay okay, hose me down, I am ready for it," he said, spreading his arms wide.

While he was complaining about all her schemes before, he appeared to thoroughly enjoy himself now, in all of his usual dark-jacketed, tousled hair glory. Amy knew she had to look cartoonish with her ear pressed against her shoulder sandwiching the phone, a spiral-bound notebook under her other arm, and the asthmatic tube in her hands.

She deliberately pointed the now marginally stronger flow of water towards him and watched it stray still, no matter what the angle or the force she applied by squeezing the mouth of the pipe to a slit. Caleb was still dry as a mummy. Even swishing the pipe so that the stream of water ideally would have met a physical barrier did not help. It just looked like the pipe had choked again.

"We know this happens all the time, so why are we doing this again?" Caleb asked, his grin fading. He had his arms crossed against his chest, defensively.

"I want to find something, something that is visible proof for others that you exist. There must be physical laws, explanations or forces that govern your condition, Caleb. Aren't you a little bit curious?"

"Well, aren't you the budding backyard scientist?"

"We are in the front yard."

"Whatever. Will it help in finding my body?"

Amy shut her mouth. He had her.

She dropped the pipe, wondering if she was being selfish, trying to satisfy her own interests instead of focusing her energies on helping Caleb. But Amy couldn't just suppress her curiosity – abandon the reliability of common sense and frolic around in the fantastical. Maybe discovering how he operated would be a clue in unearthing the location of his physical body. 

Hopping over the cold water pooling at her feet, Amy recollected all of the day's findings. The water hose had turned out to be nothing but yet another vague anomaly that no one would be interested in.

Even if by some miracle, Amy could host the contemporary scientific authorities of the world in front of her house and ask them to direct the water hose in Caleb's direction; hoping that they would understand that the divergence wasn't because of the breeze – the evidence was circumstantial at best.

Maybe she could design a larger pipe, big enough to fit him inside, and then cause the water to flow at him...

"Earth to Amy?" Caleb said, snapping his fingers.

"Yeah. Let's head back inside," she muttered, shivering slightly from the sudden chill in the air.

Caleb fired his next volley of questions as Amy raided the pantry. Undaunted by her former botched campaigns, she placed a bottle of olive oil, her father's secret stash of bourbon, a carton of milk, liquid detergent, and different-sized bowls on the counter. If there were points for sticking it out till the last breath, Amy was eligible for the grand prize.

Caleb leaned forward with his elbow on the kitchen counter, propping his chin up. "Who told you about Wesley Broad?"

Amy turned her back to him, busying herself with pouring out the liquids. She considered downing the bourbon, along with the lies her brain was mass producing. In the lowest of voices, she said, "I saw him."

"You saw him? When?" Caleb asked, his interest piqued. He moved closer, trying to catch her eye while she fussed around in the fridge.

"You know... in the passing."

She turned to find him blocking her path. "Amelia, when did you see Wesley?"

Massaging her neck, Amy focused on the curve of his shirt underneath his dark jacket. When it became clear that stubbornness was an abundant resource at Caleb's disposal, she finally managed to meet his unwavering cobalt stare. There was something in their depths that compelled the lie she had rehearsed to falter, and the truth prevailed. On their own accord, the words began unravelling from her lips.

Amy told him everything. The truck, the thunderstorm, and the four-point scar.

Caleb's face was a gamble of emotions – stormy eyes, a worried brow, and lips pressed into a thin line. "You know you could have just waited for me here."

"I know," she said, in a small voice.

"You are the smartest stupid person I know."

Singular in her lifetime, this was the moment when Amy discovered comfort in letting go of a dark secret. A lie by omission, which was hers to keep forever, had instead become an ephemeral addition to her closet full of skeletons.

Caleb's hand brushed against her cheek, and Amy masochistically welcomed the burn. "Hey, it'll be alright."

How the roles had been reversed. Smiling faintly, she returned his kindness. "I know. For you as well."

He smiled back and gently tapped her nose. "So what form of torture will this humble servant of yours be subjected to next?"

Amy laughed awkwardly, the sound seemingly borrowed from a rather large garden rat. Pointing to the line-up of household fluids, she said, "I want you to place your fingers in each of these."

Caleb regarded her with a sense of foregone conclusiveness. He sighed and rolled up the sleeves of his scarred forearm, out of habit more than anything. His fingers hovered over the teal, soapy detergent nearest to him; like a stage magician waiting to pull out a rabbit from his top hat.

He lowered his hand.

Amy gripped the counter's edge with her hands while levelling her fiery gaze with the china, scrutinizing it with frowned absorption. Her eyes widened a fraction when she caught the shadow of a ripple glass over the surface of the liquid. It was the thousandth of a petal falling on still water – but it was there. She began scribbling in her notebook in earnest.

"That's strange," Caleb said, frowning at her. "I can't push my fingers in."

Amy watched him try to attack the bowl of water with creative abandon but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't submerge his hand in the liquid. "Now, that is interesting," she whistled, her mind galloping with the possibilities. 

The impending dusk promised a rare, starry night as the shadows across the streets of Amy's neighborhood slowly lengthened. Caleb wiggled his fingers over liquids of varying volumes, concentrations, and mixtures, bemusedly following orders that ought to bore him out of his mind since the initial shock of discovery had worn off. But he indulged her, and Amy was grateful.

Of course, the results did not vary, choosing to adamantly remain equivocal.

Cracking her knuckles, Amy ticked off another box in her exhaustive list. "Keep your hand flat on the counter."

Even Caleb bit the inside of his cheek in anticipation, and lay his hand. Amy grabbed some white flour and started sprinkling it over and around him certain that with a crushing finality, a handprint would be revealed.

She drew a breath. "Okay."

When Caleb removed his hand, which did not have a single speck of flour on it, Amy's hopes were thwarted. The flour hadn't made any particular pattern around Caleb's hand, especially not the one that should have formed. Not wanting to admit defeat, she tried different combinations of the same trick – asking him to place his hand on an already sprinkled layer of flour, and later dip it in a plate full of all-purpose flour.

Nothing worked like it was supposed to. Am I doing it wrong?

"Why isn't it more obvious?" Amy groaned in frustration.

"It is weird. There are gaps in the flour and odd patterns but not the definitive ones you would expect to see."

"I really thought this would work," she mumbled, dejectedly.

"Cheer up, it's just a bit of a mess."

Amy's witty retort died in her throat when her mother's Corolla pulled into the driveway, its lights bouncing off the walls of the kitchen and illuminating both of them. Quite literally a deer caught in the headlights, she clumsily started shoving each utensil and liquid in its proper place.

Caleb shielded his eyes from the glare. "I don't think I want to witness this."

"You can't leave me like this!"

When the light abruptly went out, Amy blinked back the multicolored spots in her eyes. She heard the lock turning, just as she poured the remainder of the bourbon back into its bottle.

Caleb mocked her with wide blue eyes. "Uh, I think I can."

Her mother and Leigh walked inside, carrying large bags, looking exhausted. Anne said, "I'm so sorry honey, we just got a little caught up shopping. Are you hungry?"

Amy nodded, shielding the floury mess with her body.

Leigh plopped on the couch. "Aunt Felicia has become fat."

"Leighton!"

"We spent hours at the mall listening to her talk about the divorce. Again," Leigh said, in a deadpan voice. "What did you do all day?"

"Nothing much," Amy replied, as she cleaned the white powder off the counter.

"Is your friend around?"

"What friend?" her mother asked.

"No one," Amy answered, poking her sister's belly. It was difficult to sound cool, but she had to try. "Do you need any help unpacking?"

"That's my cue to leave," Caleb muttered. Before Amy could react, he gave her a kiss on the cheek and disappeared out of the open door and into the dimming, amber sunlight.

✧

A/N: Any other experiments you guys can think of carrying out on our little Casper? Quick! Your window might not be as generous as Amy's. 

Also also, thank you so much for 5k reads! It feels unreal to be honest that so many of you have such varied, strong, and unapologetic opinions on this story and its characters. Never change, my loves. 💕