Audrey hated being nosey, but she couldn't help herself. On her last visit to see Charley, she'd stumbled across not one but two clues as to his past: he'd been in a fire, and his last name was Chilton. With these two bits of information, she knew she could hop on the internet and find whatever she needed to. The only problem was whether she should do it or not. An ethical dilemma arose. Should she look into her friend's private past just because she was curious and could? The internet offered a plethora of information—Audrey was positive she could find what she wanted to find: information regarding Charley's accident, the reason for his disfigurement. All the news was online, these days, wasn't they? If Charley's accident had happened within the last ten years (and it had to have), she knew that she could discover its details. On the other hand, if Charley had wanted her to know what had happened to him, he would have told her by now. Audrey knew this, but her mind kept formulating excuses as to why she could perhaps be wrong. Charley just hadn't gotten around to informing her . . . he was too shy to tell her himself but wanted her to understand what had happened to him . . . he would feel more comfortable not having to tell her himself . . . and, most convincing of all, if it was public information, it wasn't a crime of any sort to look it up. Not a crime against society, Audrey thought, though that thought was followed by this one: But is it a crime against his trust? She knew the answer to this question, no matter how many times she tried to mentally talk herself out of it. Looking up Charley's past when he clearly was holding it back from her was a blatant breach of friendship fidelity. It was like when girls went and gossiped amongst their circle of friends about the very friends with whom they were gossiping. Nevertheless, Audrey found her curiosity insatiable. She knew that the aura of mystery surrounding her friend and feeding into the strange, hollowing feeling inside of her would not go away until she gave into her desire to snoop. Besides, she told herself, Charley would never have to know. It wasn't as if she'd stop seeing him based on what she found out. She'd be able to hide the fact that she delved into his past with little effort; he didn't know her well enough to really understand what she was capable of hiding.

Her mind made up, Audrey found herself plopped in front of the computer in her apartment on a Thursday afternoon. School was almost out, and she had finals to study for, but exams were the last thing on her mind. For nearly twenty minutes she sat surfing the internet, trolling for articles that might give some clue as to what happened to Charley. Surprisingly enough, it took her longer than she'd figured it would, but at last, by searching his name with an "ley" ending as opposed to an "lie," she came across a local news channel (the same news channel that had covered her lifesaving moment with Peter Sutton and her subsequent hospital visits) that had a posting of an article dated the previous summer. "Teen Badly Burned in Drunk Driving Accident," the heading read. Immediately, before she even looked at the rest of the article, Audrey knew that the mentioned teen was her friend Charley. She scrolled down the webpage, looking for pictures, and she found them. Two of them. One of a terribly mangled car, the other of a handsome boy—a very handsome boy. A teenaged-looking boy with striking black eyes and dark blond hair, a congenial yet shy smile gracing his features. He had to have been no more than sixteen or seventeen; he resembled the students wandering the halls of Audrey's own high school, and yet this person couldn't possibly be her Charley . . . how could this be him? What cruelty could have taken this human being and transformed him into the thing she saw in the hospital? The person in the picture was striking, attractive—he would never have talked to pudgy Audrey with the hair that never seemed to hang straight. A vain gladness began to creep into her—maybe it was better he was what he was now; he would never have noticed her before, yet now he was practically forced to!—but she extinguished that horrible thought as quickly as possible and allowed pity to take its place. Not self-pity. She was done feeling sorry for herself. But she also couldn't continue to feel sorry for Charley. Seeing his photograph gave her every reason in the world to get rid of her pity: if he was to recover some part of his life, some part of the life that the boy in the picture had had, she would have to provide nothing but encouragement and support. That was her role, now.

Shaking her head almost imperceptibly, Audrey went on to read the article:

Sunday, August 28 – A tragic accident resulting in the severe burning of a McAllistar Preparatory School junior occurred last night at the intersection of Lincoln and Irving Park. The driver of the car, one William McCarthy, was arrested and charged with a DUI after circumstances led to his speeding, losing control, and wrapping his vehicle around a telephone pole. McCarthy was left with some minor scrapes and abrasions after crawling out of the car; his passenger, the nephew of Chicago's well-known art critic Dr. Katherine Chilton and an anticipated junior at McAllistar Prep, was not as fortunate and suffered severe burns over two thirds of his body when the car erupted into flame and he was unable to wrangle free of his seatbelt. The sixteen-year-old was pulled from the burning wreckage when an emergency crew arrived and was immediately flown to Children's Mercy Center, where he is in critical condition. It remains unclear as to whether further charges will be pressed against McCarthy.

Audrey's heart sank as her imagination fabricated the entire scene. She saw it all in her head: the likely conversation before the accident, the fear in the passenger's and driver's faces as the car began to spin, the horror in Charley's mind as he attempted to pull himself together with the knowledge that fire surrounded him . . . and then, the worst of all . . . the unfathomable pain of the smoke and the heat and the melting flesh as this beautiful boy was burned alive . . .

Oh! She could hardly bear to think of it (even as she pleased her thoughts to vividly paint the entire scene)! The pain . . . and the injustice! Now, in that bed in the hospital, lay someone who had suffered hours on end of torture; could she blame him for the times he told her he wished he was dead? What sort of world was this, when someone so young, so innocent, so attractive and just ready for the world was imprisoned in his own body, set for eternity to rot from within?

"What are you doing, Auds?"

Audrey was startled at the sound of her father's voice. She wasn't expecting him. "You scared me half to death, dad! I thought you were working late!"

Mr. King stood in the doorway. He was rarely around during the after-school hours. Audrey usually made dinner for herself.

The man looked lovingly at his only child. "I finished things up around the gallery a bit early, thought I'd come home and see you, maybe grab a bite to eat."

"Oh," she replied a little absent-mindedly. "That's real nice." She didn't want to go out to eat. He was always feeding her. Always calling in take-out or bringing in donuts in the morning. It was likely his fault that she looked the way she did, but she could hardly refuse her father's kindness. "I—I already ate," she lied.

"Well, make some room in that stomach, because I'm hungry."

He began to loosen his tie. Audrey turned back to the screen. "I guess I can make an exception for my dad. Just let me finish looking at this, and I'll get ready."

"What are you looking at?"

"This really sad article!" She kept her eyes glued to Charley's picture. "Remember Mr. Sutton that I helped a while back?"

"Sure do."

"Well, when I visited him in the hospital, I met this kid—he's not totally a kid; he's about my age—and anyway, he was in this bad accident. I've been visiting—you know, like I've been doing."

"They don't give the good Samaritan news segment to just anyone!" Mr. King good-naturedly responded.

Audrey laughed in appreciation. "So I just decided to get a little more information about this guy. I looked him up online and found out what happened to him."

"Sounds like snooping."

"Um . . . ok. It sort of is. But I was so curious about it! Dad, it's so sad! He was in such a bad accident."

"Let me see, here." Mr. King walked over to the computer desk and leaned over his daughter's shoulder to get a better look at the screen. His reaction startled Audrey. "This is the kid you've been seeing in the hospital?" he gruffly demanded to know, grabbing the mouse from her hand and scrolling the article up and then down again in the browser several quick times.

"Y-yes . . . I see—"

"I want you to stop seeing him." Totally blocking his daughter's view, the man exited the internet altogether and quickly shut down the computer with a few clicks of the mouse.

"But dad—I—"

"Don't give me any buts. You've been hanging out at that hospital too much as it is; the last thing I need you to be doing is depressing yourself by getting all wrapped up in the story of some burned kid."

Flabbergasted, Audrey stared at her father as he backed away and began to walk out of the room. She had no idea what to say.

"Now go on and get changed up. I'm going to throw on some jeans and we'll be out of here." He made to leave, but Audrey found words.

"Dad, wait. I'm not getting depressed at the hospital. I like going; in fact, I love it! Please don't tell me I can't go! And talk about being depressed—I'm not the one who's stuck in a bed all day and all night in a sterile room with no one to talk to. That's why I visit him! He needs someone to be his friend!"

Mr. King was adamant. He looked squarely, almost fiercely at his daughter. "Then Charley can get one that's not my daughter. You heard me. I want you concentrating on school."

"But—"

"No buts. Get ready. We're leaving in ten minutes." He was out the door, then.

Left in what felt like a sudden vacuum, Audrey attempted to understand what had just happened. She'd been having a typical chat with her father and then, all of a sudden, he'd flipped out and forbidden her to see Charley. He hadn't been concerned at all about her hospital visits—had actually encouraged and been proud of them—until now; what had suddenly caused him to lose it? She was so confused. Something struck her.

"Dad?" she called to him, taking the risk that he'd still be angry and would snap back at her.

"Yeah?" he replied after a moment's silence.

Audrey raised her voice so he could hear her clearly. "How did you know his name was Charley?"

There was quiet for what felt like two or three solid, heavy minutes before he said, "You said it to me. You must have said it a hundred times. Hurry up, Audrey," he added, lightening his tone. "I'm hungry."

Slowly rising from the rolling desk chair, Audrey pondered his response. She knew that she'd never said his name. She'd never told anyone Charley's specifics; she'd kept him all to herself. And that article, the one that had just been displayed on the computer screen, had not mentioned Charley's name. Reluctantly, Audrey went to her room, looked around for her jacket, and dug in her closet for a pair of tennis shoes. It was all very odd, but she felt instinctively certain that her father knew something about her friend that he was neglecting to tell her. What that something was, she was intent on finding out.