Ugh. It was that Simon kid. Will instinctively turned away form the door when he recognized his co-worker in the breakfast place. He was up early and was trying to find somewhere to go get coffee, but he was definitely not going anywhere that tall, lanky weirdo was. What the heck was Simon doing there so early in the morning, anyway? Through the tall glass panes, Will had spotted the kid sitting at a table, chatting with a waitress who was smiling too much to really be aware of the time of day. Didn't Simon have school, or something? Didn't he have some sleep to be catching up on?

It didn't matter what he was doing there; as oddly coincidental as it was, Will would go nowhere near the kid if he could avoid it, so he instead headed toward the next nearest coffee place, which was only a block down the street.

Will was up for one reason: he wanted to get into the office of The Wanderer as soon as it opened. The small newspaper had its headquarters not far from where he was; he had read online that the building opened at eight, and even though eight was still a couple of hours away, he'd been unable to sleep due to his anxiety and had, therefore, decided to just hang around the area until the office opened up and he could get inside. His goal was simple; he wanted to speak with the editor of the paper and ask him how he could contact Gwendolyn Newsham. After realizing that the author of the article he'd read was his roommate's sister, he'd hoped that Derek would willingly give him any information he needed to meet up with her, but Will had quickly picked up on the fact that Derek and his sister did not get along. He'd been loath, therefore, to attempt to weasel any information out of Derek, whom he despised talking to anyway, no matter the reason. If Will could get in to speak to someone on The Wanderer staff and get contact information that way, it would save him the pain of broaching the subject again with his brain-fried roommate.

The Wanderer was a small, underground newspaper that dealt mostly with articles about local up-and-coming artists, musicians, and shows. It was read mostly by hipsters in search of a way to spend what they believed to be an original evening, something beyond the boring dinner-and-a-movie or get-drunk-at-a-bar night. In fact, Will never even read the newspaper; he'd seen it free in the newspaper bins and perused a copy once or twice while eating lunch or drinking coffee somewhere, but he'd never actually picked up the paper with the serious intent of reading it. That was one of the reasons he'd been surprised to find something of value in one of its articles. That piece about ugliness and evolution—how society was becoming more and more vulgar—had caused some taut, hidden string in him to vibrate; the author had expressed his sentiment exactly, and Will couldn't help but feel a fascinated wonder as to whether this woman held more of the same notions as he in regard to the world around him. That was why he was willing to get up early to speak with the paper's editor. He had to work later that day, and he had to visit the hospital even before that, but none of it really mattered until he could locate Gwendolyn Newsham. The name itself gave him a sense of comfort, as if knowing someone out there who might share his views existed, and once he found her, he'd be able at last to . . . to what? His train of thought began to slow. What exactly would he do once he found her? What did he actually hope to accomplish? His pace quickened, though he made a quick decision not to go into the generic chain café he was nearing; it would be better to just sit outside. Will cleared his mind for the moment, figuring the answer would come if he ignored the question for a bit.

The morning air was cool against his skin as he walked down the street. People were out, working, loading and unloading crates from various trucks parked along the street. He was glad to be living so much closer to downtown than he'd been when at his parents' house. He'd used to have to take the train into the city, but now he'd leave his apartment building and step right into it. He was pleased with the change he'd made, even if it meant suffering through his roommates. It was fortunate that he saw little of them anyhow. His parents had yet to contact him, which was also good. A few blocks away from where he was now sat a college campus—Delta, he thought it was called. Certain there'd be outdoor seating in the form of some benches or a fountain ledge, Will headed in that direction. The city, though beginning to wake up, was still barely touched by the daylight up above. The sky was beginning to lighten into a pale, watery yellow tinged with gray-blue, but the buildings below were too high and too thick along the streets to allow the sunlight into their depths. That fiery globe would have to be directly above before Will's position between them was illuminated. Such was the nature of a city.

Despite his present enjoyment of his surroundings, Will held a black little pebble in the back of his brain; he knew he had to visit the hospital again today. It was the last thing he wanted to do. It was always the last thing he wanted to do, and yet it was the only thing he knew he had to do. The silent awakening of the streets caused his thoughts to begin to fester. There were four more months of self-inflicted torture to go before he was free of Charley Chilton for good. The court had only let him off with a minimal fee because he'd promised to visit, but now that the visits had been going on over half a year, Will had begun to desire jail time over his short encounters with the boy whose current state was his fault. Each time Will saw Charley, he felt as if he was having to look at his own hideous open wound.

Charley had caused Will more internal turmoil than anyone ever had. As selfish as he was, Will had actually offered to do something for someone once in his life. That person had been Charley, someone he hadn't even known for more than a few minutes. But what happened last summer had not resulted in any sort of friendship. In fact, the police report stated that what Will had done had been an act of negligence—some of the news articles had even cited it an act of malevolence. Will knew that that was not the truth; in the deepest part of his heart, he knew that although the mindset he'd been in was deadly, the simple thing he had done that night had in fact been the only selfless act he'd ever committed his entire life, but it had ended in results that were more unimaginable than even he could have predicted, and now he was being cursed for his only random act of kindness. Even now, when he thought about what happened, Will had to do all in his power to keep his flesh from breaking out in goosebumps. The dread of that night was something that would live on in him forever, but it would haunt Charley in far more horrific ways and for a much longer period of time; at least for Will, when his time was up he could turn around and never look back, and even nightmares of flames and smoke and screams would eventually fade and disintegrate into forgotten memories.

The sun was rapidly rising. Will was glad for it. He hadn't realized how chilly the morning air was until he'd sat still for a while. The lack of motion stiffened his joints. He actually looked around the campus he'd walked into. It was small, just a little college with an emphasis in fine arts. Will wondered suddenly whether many students attended the college. How many jobs were there for fine artists? Was it really a field in which one could make money? His job working at Food Mart was probably as lucrative as the majority of jobs these guys would get graduating with degrees in painting and dance and sculpting. Such things concerned beauty, and the world was rapidly losing what little appreciation for beauty it had once had. There was no demand for paintings vibrant with color, or statues chiseled to the finest points, or ballets danced to music that made one's heart liquidize into pools of silver.

It was just as that article had said: the new desire was for vulgarity, and group mentality was powerful to the point that it was not absurd to assume that beautiful things were on their way to extinction. Had the arts always taken a backseat to more avaricious pursuits? Had they always struggled to maintain not only creators but also patrons? Will found himself contemplating where the notion of the starving artist originated. Had the engenderers of the beautiful things of the world always been so grossly undervalued? It was a tragedy, and society would regret it in years to come.

On occasion, Will found himself wondering what he would have gone into had he decided to attend college, but he seldom came up with a definitive answer. There was nothing that struck him as really interesting, as far as professions went, regardless of how much money it would have made him. Money was not something Will had ever thought much about, except when he had moved out to live with Derek and Mark, and even then, finances had been one of the least of his worries. Money always came from somewhere, it seemed. Somehow, one could always get money.

Will rose from where he'd been sitting and began slowly walking the perimeter of the quadrangle. His thoughts were a mesh of tangled wires, none of them producing much electricity. He could not ignore the dull pain at the thought of his imminent hospital visit, even though he was trying to shove it to the back of his worries. He focused on the patterns in the granite on which he was walking and the bushes in which he heard crickets beginning to chirp. He purposely evaded imagining Charley's face by forcing his mind to pay attention to the minutia around him. In this manner, Will managed to pass the necessary time.

At precisely 8 o'clock, Will was buzzing at the office of The Wanderer. It was a rare occasion when Will McCarthy went out of his way to satisfy curiosity, but when he did make a move, he meant business. As his finger pressed the cold, convex plastic button, he heard a robotic buzz echo into the foyer. He wondered briefly if he was too early, if the employee responsible for opening the building was, in fact, stepping up behind him at that very moment, attempting to enter the building at the same time as he. But no one was behind him, and just as he'd turned to check over his shoulder, he heard someone arrive at the door and looked to see a woman unlocking it. She was tall but average in every other way, except that her hair was long—super long (ridiculously long, Will thought)—and pitch black. His immediate impression was that she was annoyed to see him. She opened the door and waited. He was slightly intimidated by her height, but when he realized he was expected to speak first, he gathered some words. "I . . . was hoping to talk to an editor about an article I read in your paper."

She scrutinized him, looked him up and down, as if she was debating whether or not she could trust what he was saying. Her eyes were like little black coals smoldering in her eye sockets. "We don't write the articles. We compile them from contributors. They're all freelance."

She began to close the door as if the conversation was done, but he stopped it with his hand. "I know; I figured as much." Sarcasm wormed into his tone. "I was hoping to find out some contact information."

The woman was piqued. She pursed her lips and kept her right hand firmly against the door, like she was afraid he'd try to shove past her into the building. "I can see you're persistent. However, we aren't in the habit of giving out the personal information of our freelancers, you know. Cuts back on potential stalkers." Her last word was unnecessarily acidic in tone. Having insulted him, the woman attempted to shut the door again, but Will held firm.

"I don't need personal information," he insisted. Her antagonistic behavior served only to fuel his desire to get what he'd come for. "All I want is an e-mail address. Some way that I can leave a comment for her."

Rolling her eyes, the woman saw that she was going to get nowhere by being forceful. In spite of her height, she was no match for Will when it came to tug-of-war with the door. "Look," she said with a sigh. "There's no one here but me, and I don't even know all of our freelance writers. They usually post their contact information at the bottom of the article if they want feedback, so if there was no e-mail address, then I'm assuming the writer didn't want to be contacted."

"Maybe you can just tell me a little bit about the person—"

"I don't work directly with the freelancers."

"Gwendolyn Newsham. That was her name, Gwendolyn Newsham. Are you sure you can't tell me anything about her . . . anything at all . . . what she looked like, whether she writes more in other magazines and papers, or anything. I'd be grateful for anything you could tell me."

The woman thought for a moment. Will believed, with hope, that he sensed a hint of recognition in her expression, but to his dismay she responded with, "I don't remember that name at all."

Will searched his brain for something more to say, something that would spark remembrance. "She wrote an article," he said, almost drastically, "about evolution, and beauty, and conformity . . ." his voice trailed off into silence as he realized the woman still had no idea what he was talking about. He was crestfallen. Relaxing his hold on the door, he quietly added in a disbelieving manner, "How could anyone forget such an article?"

With another sigh, this one more out of pity than frustration, the woman responded, "I'm sorry. We have so many writers, and their privacy matters to us." She seemed to have a smidge of compassion for Will's plight, but then she reiterated (not without a hint of restraint), "Now will you please be on your way?"

Not responding for fear of saying or doing something violent and sudden, Will grudgingly obliged and stepped back from the door, allowing the woman to close it. The sound of the lock clicking back into place depressed him immensely. He had thought he'd come here today to find a soul reflecting his own. He thought he'd leave with the sense of elation at being one step closer to discovering a human being with whom he could truly connect. That was what he'd hoped for; that was what he'd been afraid to admit to himself on his way here. But now that he was leaving, and his hopes were dashed, it was far easier to admit to himself what it was he had lost. He briefly contemplated returning later in the day or at another time, when some other worker would likely be there, but the woman had been right: if there had been no contact information at the end of the article, it was most likely that Gwendolyn Newsham did not want to be contacted, and the paper had to respect her privacy. There was nothing to be done . . . at least, not at present. There had to be another way to find her. There had to be. Even if he had to suck up his pride and weasel information out of Derek, he could do it.

Lost in his thoughts, Will hardly paid attention to where he was walking. He was absent-mindedly fuming along the sidewalk, heading the opposite way from which he'd come. He was furious. Bizarre thoughts ran through his mind. He thought of himself biting into the brick wall at right, grinding the corner where the walls met until his teeth ground into stubs and his bloody gums continued gnawing into the foundation. The pain in his gums was almost palpable as he pictured the vague notion in his mind. Maybe he should just kick something—hit something—the horrible distending emptiness inside him might go back into hiding, find its dark little hole and squeeze back into it, taking with it the anxious feeling of being unable to catch his breath. Was this what a panic attack felt like? But he wasn't panicked . . . he was furious, for no particular purpose other than because he hated everything. He wanted to destroy something.

"Oh my God!"

Will hardly registered the words of the person he'd smushed into while rounding the corner of the building. There were so few people out and his thoughts had been so virulently eating and regurgitating themselves that he'd been unaware of the potential of someone being around the edge of the wall. He backed up a step and angrily responded, "Watch where the hell you're going!" before thinking.

"Jerk," muttered the woman, whisking around him before he could get a good look at her.

Something familiar registered in her gait as Will watched her retreating figure. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on yet sensed in a place beyond the daylight of his consciousness. His expression was one of bewilderment, but it was only a matter of moments before he shook free of the trance and decided to follow her. It was easy to do . . . there were hardly any people amongst whom he could lose her, and she was too focused on her destination to suspect anything and turn around. Within two minutes, Will was cognizant of a fascinating fact: the woman he'd just run into was the pale, dark-haired one that had been blistering a hole in his brain for the past few weeks.