Will McCarthy wanted someone to hit him. Hard. Maybe wake him up a little bit. Because he was sort of beginning to feel as if he wasn't awake. As if he was just kind of stuck in a dream and moving through the halls with legs that were about to detach from his body. Or maybe they already had detached. He did feel a little like he was floating.

It was stupid—having to come all the way down here to see someone he didn't even care about. None of this had anything to do with him, really, so why should he have to take a bus all the way out here to see this person? This kid he didn't care about in the least?

Ok. He had to admit to himself that somewhere, he had to care about him to some small degree, otherwise, he wouldn't be so undeniably nervous right now.

Everything around Will seemed to validate the dream-impression he had. It all moved without really moving, made sounds that just kind of echoed somewhere in the recess of his brain seconds after they'd actually been emitted. Everything so . . . so white. So clean. Pure.

Ugh. What a word.

Now that he was at the door, he really did not want to go in. His hand was at the handle, the sterile-looking, metal door handle, but it was paused right above it, hesitating, not wanting to take hold. Because once he touched it, he'd verify that this wasn't a dream. That it was real. And he wasn't positive he was ready for it to be real.

Somebody coughed beyond the door, shaking Will a bit. He lifted his hand up from the handle, shoved trembling, lean fingers, through his shaggy, unkempt auburn hair. Surely his face was whiter than usual.

Why was he so nervous?

It was too quiet, now. The cougher had stopped. The silence of the cold hall made Will's heartbeat seem extraordinarily loud.

Had he always felt this crazy? This unstable? Like he wanted to turn and run and never look back—that was how he felt. Because whatever was beyond that door woke up a world of reality he didn't want to deal with. He much preferred living in a world he pretended he controlled, even if it was sometimes forced and a little lonely. His world was safe. He wouldn't let people get to him—because they'd disappointed him too often, and he'd promised himself never to let it happen again. He'd boxed himself up, and he liked it that way. The person beyond the door threatened his self-imposed barriers, and it worried him. Whether he'd felt this crazy for a while or not, it was too late to think about it. This was inevitable. He knew it was, and for as much as he hated the fact that his life was being ruined by someone else, there was nothing he could do about it. This was a snowball rolled to a disproportionate size, a disaster waiting to happen. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Another cough from inside, but this time, it didn't startle Will; it made him angry. With newfound resolution, sucking up his fear, he latched onto the door handle and gave it a sharp turn. Within seconds, he was peering into the room. Making certain no other visitor was there. Inching his slender, agile frame around the door, closing off the world of pure white halls he'd felt lost in moments before.

There was a bed, there. It was all he really saw; the rest of the room blurred as Will moved slowly, cautiously forward. The silence hummed with the white noise of hospital equipment: heart monitors, IV's, all those other nondescript pieces of electronic life support. Keeping the thing on the bed alive.

The thing. The thing. It was moving—its arm went up to its face, rubbed its absent nose, then went back down.

Will felt vomit rise in his throat. Was it nerves? Was it fear? Was it disgust? He couldn't tell, but he gagged a little and forced himself to remain calm. One foot in front of the other . . . one foot in front of the other . . . he was going to make it . . . like taking medicine: just get it down, then it's done and over with. Just do it . . .

"Will?"

Will stopped short. His heart pounded in his chest. The thing on the bed had noticed him. Had actually turned toward him. And it knew his name.

"Is that you, Will?"

Someone's voice answered, "Yeah, it's me," and it took Will a moment or so before he realized it had been his own. The thoughts crashing around the rooms in his brain were making his voice difficult to hear.

Silence for a couple of minutes.

Then, "Go away. I don't want to see you."

The rushing in Will's head came to an abrupt stop. Had the thing just told him to go away? Because that was exactly what he wanted to do . . . to go away. To leave. He didn't want to be there, anyway—and he was getting the chance to leave . . . Was it too good to be true?

"Seriously," the thing said again. "Just get out."

Turn around, Will told himself. He wants you to leave—just go! This is your chance! But for a reason he couldn't guess, he was rooted where he stood. It was as if the thing on the bed had caused his ability to act to melt away, and the residue of his willpower was cementing him to the tile.

A hand sign from the bed. Some beeping that seemed ridiculously loud now, even though it had been playing in the background since Will had entered the room. The roar of the silence, as if they were in an air pocket.

This was insane. Will was this worked up over something so . . . so not his fault! He knew he wasn't responsible for any of this . . . it had been her . . . all her fault! And yet . . . he couldn't help but feel intense remorse as he stood there, mere feet away from someone he'd never even known but who now filled every one of his brain cells when he was awake, and, more and more frequently, when he was asleep. It was the most absurd circumstance ever—and he knew it! Why couldn't he get this thing out of his head? Why should he have to feel so torn up over this freakshow? Why was he here, practically puking from nerves, unable to move his own damned feet, forced to face the thing on the bed? Why hadn't his life gone back to normal? It wasn't fair!

"I said, get the hell out! You make me sick!" This time, the command came more forcefully, and the emitter broke into some coughing.

That seemed to wake Will from his stupor. The coughing. It jerked him back into gear, and he found that one of his feet—his right foot—could move. So he stepped backward with it, and his left foot followed suit. Before he knew it, he had his back up against the door, was searching blindly for the handle, found it, opened the portal, and re-entered the world of white halls.

As much as he hated the pure white halls, he'd hated that room even more. He'd never felt so grateful to be out of a place.

Walking, trying to remember which way he'd come in and how in the world to get out of there, Will felt as if he were on display. He totally stood out. Looked dirty—like a germ in a sterile pool. His falling-apart converse shoes, one with the front of its sole slightly flopping. His dirt-wash jeans that kind of sagged off his hips, held up only by the threadbare belt he wore. His collared shirt peeking out from under his haphazard, too-big sweater. It was February. The weather was bitter. Even if it had been ninety degrees outside, Will would've been fully covered. He'd been feeling cold for some time and had taken to wearing long sleeves and pants no matter how strong the sun shone. Now, though, his neglect toward his appearance, his grungy ensemble, caused him to feel incredibly conspicuous. He felt as if every white-dressed nurse, every scrub-clad doctor, gave him a distasteful glance. And they probably did.

Getting through that place was like wandering through a labyrinth. Will didn't get out of it until about twenty minutes after leaving the room with the thing in the bed. That was partially because the place was so confusing but even more because his mind was too full of crap to focus on where he was going, at which bus-stop he needed to be. When he finally did make it out, the bright light was deceiving; it wasn't sunny outside. Just bright. Which was fine. Will had kind of come to feel uncomfortable in the sunlight. He liked the dark, now. Liked how it devoured the sun every evening. Maybe he preferred the dark only because he was awake more during it than during the day. The reverse in his sleeping patterns had changed abruptly after the new year began. It made work hard.

Work. Ugh.

Will hated being an adult. He hated responsibility. Wished he'd never passed the age of eighteen. But now, here he was, twenty-five, unsure what on earth he wanted to do with his life—whether it was even worth doing something with—without any degree to his name, without a real job, without any stable relationships. Here he was, working at a grocery store because it was the only thing he didn't have to think about while doing. And here he was, now, with this ugly incident from several months ago preying upon what little sanity he felt he still maintained. Was he supposed to be responsible for it all?

Will didn't want the responsibility. It had just found him. Sought him out. Made itself evident and forced him to take it on. He hadn't been asked whether he wanted to have it. He hadn't even had the time to realize it was there until it was already heaped onto his shoulders, and by then, it had been too late to try avoiding it. Once again, what little he knew about life consisted of the fact that he had absolutely no control over it. Life did what it wanted to do; he was just one of its hardly-aware pawns.

At last, Will figured out where he was supposed to be. He made his way toward the bus stop bench slowly, scuffing the loose sole of his shoe against the pavement and nearly tripping once or twice, though he barely noticed and incorporated the ungraceful movements into his meander with little effort. One other person was seated there—some old lady. Of course. The only people without cars were old ladies, teenagers, and him. At least she didn't look as if she wanted to talk. He slid onto the cold metal bench as far away from her as possible and leaned back against the glass shelter, closing his eyes.

Will had used to think about his future. In high school, he'd been like all those other cocky jerks, thinking he'd make some pro-soccer team or get Bright Flight for his ACT scores. And he'd actually wanted to go on to college. Had never imagined himself doing otherwise. And then . . . well, then school had ended, and he had put everything off. It was as if he had just lost interest in anything. Felt there was no point. And it was still how he felt, now, seven-and-a-half years later, when everyone else he'd been in high school with had graduated with their BA's and BS's and MFA's and whatever other letters they'd gone on to attach to their names. Will couldn't even stand running into any of them. If he saw them randomly in a store, he'd turn the other way. There was something that felt angry when he saw them.

Time passed. Will dozed off, and when he shook his head awake and he noticed the old lady was still sitting a ways down on the bench, he checked his watch. The bus was late, as usual, and he definitely wasn't going to make it to work on time. His manager was not going to be happy.

He'd been right. "You damn punk!" Mike had barked the moment he'd arrived at the Food Mart. "Think you can just wander in when you feel like it? People are waiting on you—can't leave unless you take their spot—and they get pissed at me when you don't show. Tell me how that's fair, huh? Tell me how that's fair! You screw up, and I take the shit? How is that fair?"

And Will had waited for the guy to get out of his way, but when a good thirty seconds had passed and he could still feel the heat emanating from his weasley manager's eyes, he'd replied, "It's . . . not?"

"Damn right!" the man had spit (Will had felt a few drops hit his forehead), and then he'd shoved past Will and into the stock room.

His manager's annoyance had had little effect on Will. In fact, it hadn't bothered him in the least. Mike, one of the daytime managers of Food Mart, was someone Will neither feared nor respected, so he gave the guy pretty much no attention unless provoked. Mike was actually young—maybe a few years older than Will—but he'd been working in a grocery store with lackadaisical teenagers and slow old people long enough that his face had turned a permanent shade of pink that took on a purplish hue when he had reason to grow angry. Which was often.

Will spent the rest of the night stocking shelves, which was good. He hated running the register; people always tried to talk to him when he was stuck behind it. They'd ask him how his night was and grin and act stupid about how to use their credit cards. He'd have to ask them whether they wanted paper or plastic, when it didn't matter in the least to him and he'd rather throw their food out the door than pack it all neatly into bags. He was used to the sort of people who came through the register lines. There were two types: the ones who were quiet and pretended the cashier was merely a machine and the ones who tried to make conversation or small talk. He preferred the first, if he was forced to choose. At least the ones who were quiet left him alone. But the talkers were obnoxious. He'd gotten everything from the environment lovers attempting to teach him the heinous tragedies of plastic bags and the old women who asked him how old he was and told him they reminded him of a nephew, to the people who seemed to fear silence and asked randomly about the weather or commented about the rising prices of tomatoes as if anyone cared. Occasionally, Will would get some teenager come through the line trying to buy alcohol: those were his favorites. The only ones he enjoyed ringing out. And it was because he got to tell them to put everything back and get the hell out before he called security. That was always kind of a rush.

Shelf stocking wasn't the most fabulous job in the world either, though. He could sometimes go into the storage room and hide behind boxes, where he'd stare at nothing in particular and listen to himself breathing. That was the one benefit of stocking. When he was out on the floor, though, he risked being spoken to by some shopper. He hated talking to people. Being solicited for advice. Lately, because of his decline in mood, he'd had to really put effort into not snapping at people.

He was putting salsa on the shelves. Mild. Medium. Hot. He didn't read anything but labels. What were novels and newspapers compared to labels? He had no time for them. Just labels. In his dreams, he saw labels. It was late in the evening. Nearly ten o'clock. For some reason, the university students seemed to creep out of the woodwork at that time of night and remember all the food and toilet paper they needed. Sometimes beer and condoms. They were never shy—unlike the people that came during the day. Night people were never nervous about what they were buying. They didn't crowd the self-checkout lines, holding their products close to their bodies so no one could look at their secret purchases (as if no one else in the world bought tampons or laxatives). At night, the university kids came in. Food Mart was located about five blocks from the South dorms and apartments of Corland University. That campus was actually what kept the small grocery store alive. CU was one of the top fine arts schools in the Midwest, and although it wasn't in a large city or major area, it had a reputation for producing the finest in fields of design, stage, visual art, the written word, and music, and that was what mattered. The students leaked out of their brick-wall dorms, apartments, and townhouses to shop at Food Mart at all hours of the night, which was why the store had adopted a twenty-four-hour policy.

"Excuse me . . . can you help me?"

Will didn't want to turn. He knew he had to, though. He looked around to find a watery old man with a can of refried beans in his hands.

Conscious only of the ridiculous question he was being asked about peanut products in the beans, Will felt his brain dropping overhead doors. When he was exasperated, his mind shut down. He just started to spew out regurgitated instructions he was used to offering: Everything we offer is healthy. Ask at the information desk. If you're in doubt, choose another product.

Finally, Will could take no more of the old man's questions about refried beans. He could hardly understand the old man's words, let alone figure out how to help him. At length, he advised the man to ask assistance from someone else, which caused the man to grumble something. Will, really believing he would become nauseated if he didn't move, simply turned away and left the aisle, not caring whether he'd been rude or not.

He moved two aisles to the left, then turned down the one containing baking ingredients and utensils. He hated this aisle. Absolutely detested it. It was confusing, with all its tiny jars of spices, herbs, and random mixing and baking ingredients in addition to the hundreds of little utensils, gadgets, and pots and pans hanging from top to bottom on either side. It was an aisle he never wanted to stock, and when he realized he'd turned down it, he sighed in annoyance at himself. Will would've immediately backtracked and headed somewhere else when he noticed the only other person in the aisle: a pale woman with dark hair and a large coat that was at least a size too big. Her legs stuck out from the bottom of it like toothpicks, though extremely graceful toothpicks, if such things could exist, Will thought.

The young woman looked far too delicate for what she was wearing. Her thin forearms appeared breakable as they reached out from her sleeves; small bones protruded from her wrists, which lightly extracted little plastic bottles of herbs and spices from the rack on the shelf as she looked for something particular. Her hair was pulled back into a slick bun, causing her to appear a few years older than she probably was, although the slightly-curled bangs against her forehead were a reminder of her youth. There was something about the darkness of her hair and eyes against the paleness of her skin, about the fragility of her form, her lithe posture that gave Will the impression she was otherworldly.

Her wrist flicked out her porcelain hand. Her fingers selected first a bottle of cumin, then replaced it for a bottle of curry. Slightly, the woman cocked her head and turned the container of reddish-orange powder left to right to check its price. Paying attention to nothing beyond her own intentions, she lifted her other hand to unscrew the cap of the bottle and, once she had it open, raised it to her long, straight nose to sniff its contents. The scent must have somewhat overwhelmed her, for she blinked quickly and jerked her head back ever so slightly. Still, the spice seemed to please her, because she screwed the cap back on and placed the item in the basket hanging airily from the crook of her right elbow and continued scanning the bottles.

Will stood, tall, motionless, unaware of the fact that he'd paused—that everything had seemed to pause as he stood watching her—and unsure of his own thoughts. He knew only that he was impressed by something. It wasn't her appearance, he at first guessed; she didn't have the sort of form that attracted him. She was too thin and . . . and breakable, Will thought. Yes—she looked so breakable, as though a stray grocery cart shoved down the aisle could crush her on impact. And yet, her movements as she raised and lowered her arms, as she stepped to the left or right, as she glanced up and down, betrayed a kind of elegance that must have had origins in bodily strength. Still, it couldn't be her physical appearance. She was so different and, probably, somewhat older than any sort of girl he was attracted to. But there was still something that held him there, his feet unable to shuffle themselves any farther down the aisle.

He managed to twist his torso somewhat in order to appear as though he was studying something intensely on the shelves he was closest to, but his false interest in flours and sugars was of little value, as the woman made absolutely no gesture or motion to indicate she was aware of his presence. From the sides of his eyes, Will studied her profile. It was cut from ice, he thought immediately, for her sharp nose and high brow, her small lips and pointed chin were made colder by the whiteness of her skin. The slight curl in the dark hair flat against her forehead made one imagine a bottle of ink had been spilled over a white marble bust but stopped running before ruining its precise features.

What was causing his sudden paralysis?

Before he could even consider the answer to this question, the woman was stepping back, then turning toward his end of the aisle and, placing one leg in front of the other, moving directly to him. He wanted to look away; he wanted to look anywhere but at her, because he suddenly felt a sinking embarrassment to be wearing the red Food Mart apron, though he had never felt any emotion at all toward the standard uniform. But he could only stare at her white shins as she approached him, wondering at the smoothness of them, wondering whether she was going to talk to him yet hoping she wouldn't, and feeling a fear as great as what he'd felt hours earlier and every time he'd gone to the hospital bedroom: whoever she was, she was evoking actual dread in the pit of his stomach. He was so suddenly, erratically afraid of the approaching woman that his teeth clenched so tight that they hurt, but just as he realized the pain, she was gone. Had passed him by without even once placing her eyes anywhere near him; he might as well have been invisible.

Once she was gone, Will relaxed his jaw. He noticed he could move. He breathed deeply.

He could hardly understand what had taken place, and he certainly didn't want to admit what he'd just felt, because he knew at once that whatever had happened, it had been absolutely the most irrational thing in the world.

Still, when his shift ended and he was leaving Food Mart to endure the cold walk home, Will felt a small twinge of disappointment that he hadn't seen her again before she'd checked out and left the store.