I spotted Brooklyn in the sea of students rushing to class and zigzagged toward her. Hugging my notebook to my chest, I took turns dodging a group of wrestlers practicing their chosen profession in the hallway and barely escaping with my life when a linebacker decided to plunge through the crush of bodies.

Who knew high school could be so dangerous?

Brooklyn was busy dialing the combination on her locker. She glanced at me between spins. “Hey, you.”

“Hey.” I leaned against the wall of bright red lockers and asked, “Do you remember what today is?”

She stopped midspin, her dark visage puckering in soft admonishment. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

I shrugged and glanced down. It was weird. I figured the tenth anniversary of my parents’ disappearance would be excruciating. Like if I’d broken a leg or gotten a really bad paper cut. Instead, the pain in my chest was more like a whisper bouncing off the walls of an empty cavern. I just woke up and they were still gone. Like they had been every other morning for the last ten years.

At first their absence had seemed like a dream, but the depth of despair my grandparents fell into convinced me they were really gone. And everyone asked me questions. What happened? What were we doing there? What did I see? Nothing, I would tell them. Again and again, nothing. I didn’t understand why they were asking me questions I couldn’t possibly have the answers to, but they said I’d been with my parents when they disappeared. The police found me unconscious beside our car at the old Pueblo ruins outside of Riley’s Switch. I didn’t remember being there. I just remembered waking up in the hospital days later, my body so heavy, I could barely move, my lungs so thick, I could barely breathe. And no one had any explanation as to why.

Then came the questions. Over and over until my grandparents, in their state of utter bereavement, ordered the authorities to stop and took me home to grieve. I found out later that the entire town had helped look for my parents. Search parties scouted for days, hunted for clues. Even the FBI showed up, but nothing was ever found. Not a single shred of evidence. As cliché as it sounded, they literally vanished without a trace.

The official report stated that my parents had wandered off and lost their way back. But they would never have done that. They would never have left me. And yet, because there was no evidence of foul play, the investigation lasted only a couple of weeks.

And I, the only one who could offer any explanation, could remember nothing. The guilt of that fact weighed on me more and more every year, like a jagged boulder in my chest that grew with each passing moment.

I’d never told anyone about the guilt except for Brooke.

Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Why didn’t you stay home?”

“And wallow in a deep pit of despair alone when I could force you to wallow with me? No, thank you.”

She nodded. “That’s a good point. I’m pretty good at wallowing.”

“And,” I said, withdrawing inside myself just a little, “I have something awful to confess.”

“Yeah?” Intrigue scooted her closer. “How awful?”

I hugged my notebook tighter and said, “I keep thinking about that boy from the Java Loft. For three days, that boy and that vision.”

A knowing smile softened her face. “And you feel guilty?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you think I should?”

“No.”

“I mean, here I am, practically orphaned ten years to the day, and my mind keeps replaying that vision over and over in my head. I’ve never seen anything like it. Or felt anything like it, for that matter. He was so fierce, so desperate, and yet somehow not quite human.” I took in a deep breath and refocused on Brooke. “But to think about that on today of all days.”

She put a hand on my arm. “Lor, I’m certain your parents wouldn’t want you wallowing for their sake.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to have your gift, to see the things you’ve seen and feel the things you’ve felt. I understand where you’re coming from, but if you really loved me, you’d describe that boy in much more detail and include pertinent information like chest measurements and white blood cell count.”

I grinned playfully and leaned in closer. “Well, I did try my hand at drawing him.”

Her smile widened. “And?”

After a quick scan of the area to make sure no one was looking, I eased my notebook forward to reveal my latest masterpiece.

Her stare locked on to the image I’d drawn. The boy from the vision. She inhaled a soft breath. “Oh, my.”

“I know.” I’d caught only a fraction of his face during the fight. Dark eyes one instant. A strong jaw the next. Lashes, thick and impossibly long. So I didn’t really have that much to go on, but I drew what I remembered.

“Is the boy in your vision the same one from the hall?”

“Probably,” I answered. “At least that’s how it usually works. But how could that even be possible?”

“Beats the heck outta me.”

“Maybe my vision was a metaphor for something he has to face in his life. Something awful.”

“Like finals?”

“Exactly. Only, you know, more life-threatening.”

A slow nod confirmed her agreement. “Maybe. I know one thing: He’s absolutely gorgeous.” She leveled an approving eye on me. “You are getting seriously good at this stuff. You should sell your drawings on eBay and pay for a trip to the casinos. Put those skills to good use.”