September 20, Saturday. 4:47 p.m.

Puddles. Lots of puddles. Hard to traipse down the sidewalk without getting one's shoes wet. There's a sense of urgency—not to mention high velocity winds—speeding me home from school this late afternoon. We had torrential rain this morning, and I fear it might start up again before I reach my destination.

Adam is not okay. He was fine on Monday, yes. But he hasn't shown up for school since then. Dylan has gone to see him every night, and every day he's walked me to school in Adam's place. Every time he learns something new, he tells me. I appreciate that.

Apparently, it was a bigger mistake than I realized to ask Adam about the whole "pinky-promise" thing. Initially I thought maybe the fact that I didn't understand annoyed him. Dylan denied this as the reason, instead saying that Adam recently was overthinking the fact that his band has gained such traction, doesn't know how to handle the recognition, and he's still trying to deal with the repercussions of that meeting with his caseworker. Apparently he's due for another meeting soon. That can't be a good thing. Will Adam ever go back to his usual self? That is, the version of himself I was introduced to when we first met? The version of himself I like best? The version I'm sure everyone likes best?

A strong desire to help—to heal—spurs me further, first detouring to my house to drop off my school backpack and grab Mackerel's carrier. Putting the kitten inside, slinging the carrier onto my back, I lock the front door and turn back down the sidewalk, ducking into the hollow toward Adam's. Dylan would have joined me, but he had homework to catch up on and he really didn't have any other option because he's very behind.

   The dark trees, once eerie and daunting, have taken on the appeal of a fantasy respite—homey and intriguing. Tall, twisting oaks. Bushy pines. Sweet, red-leafed sugar maples. Upon some fleeting impulse, I dance a few steps through the leaves, kicking them up in small, sweet-smelling tornadoes. Part of me feels a tinge of guilt, enjoying myself while Adam is suffering, but I tell myself that it's okay to stay positive like this because it helps you avoid getting sucked into someone else's quicksand.

   Adam's house is not far ahead, but I'm not sure if that's where I should look for him. Maybe I should check the old depot. That is his sulking place, after all.

Inside the carrier on my back, Mackerel squeaks out an impatient meow. She doesn't like to be stationary in the carrier for long—it makes her restless. "Okay, baby, we'll get going," I croon softly, feeling awkward hearing my voice amid the stillness of the deep woods. Moving forward, I spot a dark shape huddled on the front porch of Adam's house. Having seen this shape often enough, I know who I am looking at. A slight thrill of relief trails through me, and I quicken my pace to climb the porch, standing beside him. He didn't go far today. Perhaps he's too exhausted.

   "Hey," I set a hand on his shoulder and gently remove Mackerel's carrier. "You okay?"

   Lifting his head a little, he turns his face. He looks horrible—utterly sleep deprived, pale, half-alive. "Do I look okay?" He rasps, dropping his head into his arms again.

   "You look like death," I reply pointedly, a bit frustrated with myself for feeling slight impatience.

   "Death can have me," he pouts. Suddenly it occurs to me that maybe he's worse off than anyone is aware of.

   "You don't mean that," I mutter disapprovingly, sitting beside him. He stiffens.

   "Yeah I do. Don't tell me that I don't mean it. You're not me. You don't effing know."

   "But Adam, your life is so full of potential—"

   "Life is a bitch," he growls, grabbing my wrist tightly and throwing my hand off of his shoulder. It's not exactly fair to say it's a growl, it's more of a gritty whine since his voice is so high-pitched. A snarl, that's more like it.

   He begins to breathe heavily, so similar to my breathing patterns during a panic attack. His body trembles from the wet and cold and his overbearing emotional state.

   "I... I want you to leave."

   "Adam. You're confused. You're hurting. I can't just leave you to suffer."

   "You can. You lived most of your life without knowing who I was. Without apprehending my pain."

   "But I know you now. Your blood is on my hands. I'm here for you. You have to trust me."

   "That's what they all say," he mutters scornfully, shifting his body away from me. I move closer, defying his wishes.

"Look, Mr. Pity Party. I don't know what the hell is going on in your life, but I know it's not easy on you, and all I want to do is help. I wanna show you that not everyone is going to hurt you. There are some people you can trust. I'm here for you, and I am not going to judge you. I just want you to get better. I care about you."

"Piss off."

"Oi, language!" I slap him reprovingly and he just glares. I can't resist smirking. "Wow, you're such a little grump, aren't you?"

He glowers. "Don't push it."

Inhaling deeply, feeling ever so frustrated at the collision of our stubborn attitudes, I'm relieved that Mackerel chooses to start meowing. She wants to get out.

Adam hears it too, and his anger seems to dissipate instantly. "Whoa. Was that your cat?"

He remembers her meow. Incredible. Definitely wasn't expecting that from the scatterbrain.

"Yeah, it's my cat, but you probably don't want to see her."

He sits up, pulling himself together as if a super cute girl just showed up and he wants her to notice him. "No no, I do, I do. Where is she?"

"In here." I gesture to the carrier, which is a lot like a backpack. His large, sleepless eyes widen with interest.

"Hey, that's a cool carrier. Where'd you get it?"

"Honestly? I don't remember." Unzipping the flap, I pull Mackerel out and strap on her harness, attaching the leash around my wrist. This way, if anything spooks her, she can't escape.

"Ooh, hey little one," he whispers gently, rubbing her under the chin and stroking her tail. "Geez, you're so pretty. Look at those stripes." He runs his hands all over her, relaxing with each little touch. Mackerel responds accordingly, purring her cute little purr and nosing his hands for more attention, pawing his lap as though she's kneading bread dough.

"Aww, look at you making lil' biscuits," he croons, scratching her ears and eliciting even louder purrs. She climbs fully into his lap, sets her paws against his chest, and rubs the side of her face against his collar. He takes her into his arms and holds her, shutting his eyes and relaxing his breathing. He's stopped shaking, he's less tense.

   Sometimes I wonder if cats aren't the cure for everything. They're some of the best companions to have when you're sad, because all they want is attention and it helps you not to focus so much on yourself and your troubles. Cats are truly amazing.

   "Hey, has she ever met any other cats?"

   "No, she stays inside most of the time."

"She ever get lonely?"

"Sometimes."

   "Huh. Maybe she'd like to meet Pickwe." Now he stands, noticing for the first time that her leash is attached to me. He raises a puzzled eyebrow. Rising to my feet and hiking the carrier over my shoulder, I follow him through the front door. The minute we step into the living room, a fluffy black cat bolts in from nowhere, ramming its head into Adam's left shin and yowling in protest as it then attempts to climb his leg, instantly taking interest in Mackie perched in Adam's bare, ink-stained arms. He should not be wearing a T-shirt on such a bitter day. He needs a hoodie. But then, having heard him say that Death could have him, I'm not surprised he was letting himself freeze.

   It would be kind of backwards to offer the one I'm wearing, I suppose—even if it was his. I've worn it almost every day since he gave it to me, and I'm kind of afraid to wash it because I don't want his smell to leave the article.

   Adam stoops to let the kitties sniff each other. I brace myself for the proverbial raising of fur, flashing of claws, and overall spatting. None of that occurs. They just look at each other calmly, curiously. And then the black cat rubs its face against Mackerel's and gives her an amicable lick on the head.

   "Geez, I wasn't expecting that. Cool. Good boy, Pickwe." He scratches the black cat's chin, and it purrs in response. Mackie wriggles in Adam's arms, and reluctantly he sets her down. Pickwe circles her, she circles him. They sniff each other. Eventually they end up lying down on the area rug together, purring happily, licking each other's fur like they're old pals. Adam shakes his head, amused and amazed.

He sits beside them, and I feel I have to do the same. As it was the first—not to mention only—time I was here, it's very quiet. Hard to believe one lives in a large family of the family is never around, never heard.

"Where are your sisters?" I ask almost inaudibly, looking around warily.

He shrugs. "Wherever they are."

I raise an eyebrow, unamused. "Adam, c'mon."

"For the record, I'm not messing with you. I literally don't know where they are, other than not here."

"Um. Okay."

The discussion is clearly over. Lying down with the kittens, he teases them, and promptly they begin to snuggle against and climb on him. He loses himself in the love, relaxing completely and becoming more and more the Adam I like best. I sit here watching them, legs crossed at the ankles, knees hugged to my chest. Though I've seen it before, I just never really thought about the black bracelet on Adam's left wrist. It looks different closer up, and the longer I stare at it the more unusual it seems. It's not your typical band bracelet or anything like that—it looks like a tracking device or something.

He catches me looking, lolling his head back to gaze at me through those melancholy eyes. No matter how many times I blink, it doesn't seem to break the trance.

   "Adam, what's that on your wrist?"
   This startles him, sends him scrambling to sit up, anger and pain so hot in his eyes I instantly regret being so curious. He studies me, glances around, takes a deep breath.

"You really wanna know?"

If I tell him no I'll be lying, but I don't want him getting any worse. So I just shrug. He fidgets with the black ring encasing his wrist, stares at it thoughtfully. Then, he looks up with kindness in his eyes. "It's alright. I know you do."

"Y-you don't have to, Adam, it's none of my business."

"That's what you think."

I raise an eyebrow, but he dismisses those last words of his and plunges on. "It's...well, I dunno how to explain exactly why I've gotta have it. But, um..."

Closing my eyes, I turn my face away. This is going to trigger him, I just know it, and triggering him will trigger me and we'll both be a mess.

   "It's called a BastardBand."

   I snap my head around to eye him. "Seriously?"

   "Uh, yeah."

"Why...?"

He sighs, somewhat defensive. "Look, I have to wear it because they don't know who my parents are. I've had to wear one ever since I was taken to the hospital after Tris found me."

   "So you don't call her Mom?"

"No. Why would I? She's not my mom."

"So what does this...offensively titled band...do, exactly, if anything?"

"It's...look, I dunno, it's like a tracking device...no...that's not it. Damn. I dunno. I can't get my thoughts straight." Pressing both palms against his temples, he scrunches his sleepless eyes shut. I'm not sure how I can tell, but he's not making any of this up. This is not an excuse—he really, truly cannot think clearly. He only swears when his thoughts are a mess. I've known him long enough to catch onto that.

"Maybe I should go..." I start to get up, but he shakes his head.

"No, stay with me, I can't... I can't be alone. Not right now." He looks imploringly at me, and the fear in his eyes is so terrible, the hazel color glows bright—almost orange—like a flame. A sense of impending doom filters its way into me, much like a cold flutter of panic. And yet dense, humid, acrid.

He's really not okay.

This time I sit closer to him, and without either of us speaking, he drags himself near and flops his upper half into my lap, his right cheek squashed against my right thigh. His eyes are closed and he's trying to keep his breathing under control. The kittens curl up next to us, sensing something is wrong in a way only animals can. I stare at the broken boy in my lap—how thin and pallid he is, how wracked with pain he is. His arms and fingers are stained with ink from his endless writing and who knows what else. The fingers are long, tapered, perfect guitarist's fingers. Calloused appropriately.

   I am not sure if I should touch him, hold him, or just leave him as he is until he recovers. He's weak, that I know for certain. He needs rest. Lots of rest.

   Now that I have a general idea about his bracelet, I can probably probe Dylan for more information on it. He's more than aware of Adam's situation, so it would only be logical to assume he's also been privy to this.

   Tentatively, I touch my fingers down on his left shoulder. At first he tenses even further, but as I run my hand down the aching muscle, he relaxes. I massage his back and shoulders in effort to keep him calm, hoping that if I can at least alleviate some of the physical discomfort, he'll get better sooner. I'm not sure if this is the best kind of attention to give him, but I know it's better than leaving him alone to wallow in his misery and self-pity. He needs someone to show him that none of this has to define him, that he can be his own person without relying on the weight of his past to tell the world who he is. I know this because I know that somewhere deep inside this mess of pain, division, and confusion, there's an absolute sweetheart of a boy with endless talent and potential who just wants to love and be loved. He wants to know he matters, that he belongs to someone—anyone. He wants to know he isn't alone, that he will get better. That his situation will get better.

I stop rubbing his back the minute he adjusts his head, hair flopping out of his face completely. It's a nice face, very adolescent, yet mature in as many ways as it is boyish. As I study him, I notice something I'm sure not many people have ever seen before: on the right side of his face, beginning directly below the hairline and sweeping down on the outer edge of his eye, ending after his cheekbone, there is a dark patch of skin. A scar or a birthmark, I can't exactly tell which it is. It looks as though someone dipped a paintbrush in something hot, or perhaps set one on fire, and gave him a stroke across the face.

No wonder he covers his eye all the time. He's got enough on his plate without people making a big deal out of this odd birthmark or scar.

"Hey...does that hurt?"

"Mmm?" He grunts, giving me the impression that he's half awake.

"That...scar on your face."

I expect him to quickly sit up and flip the hair back over it as soon as possible. Instead he takes my hand and guides it over his face. His skin is smooth, not oily like one would expect from a teenaged boy.

   "Not a scar," he explains softly. "Just a stupid birthmark. Or at least that's what I've been told."

Of course he'd be skeptical of that, he trusts nobody.

"So, no, it doesn't hurt."

"How come you cover it up?"

"It's ugly. I don't like people seeing it. They don't need another reason to call me a freak."

"People are stupid. I think it's cool, in a creepy sort of way."

"I think it's embarrassing and I hate it." He releases my hand and settles again, breathing exhaustedly and running his hands down his beautiful face. "Dear lord, I'm so tired."

"Sleep, then."

He turns his head to look at me. Directly in the eyes, into my soul, it seems. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Uh...never mind."

He seems to have had enough with explaining things for one day. That's alright. I don't expect him to tell me everything all at once. A few pieces at a time are fine. I can out the puzzle together once I have enough.

Turning over again so he's not looking at me, he takes my hand again and links our pinkies together.

My heart thuds desperately, wishing I knew what he could possibly be promising.