An eagle circles over us, higher and higher circles. "Benji misses you."

He squints. "What do you mean?"

"He just needs you, you know. You've been working a lot lately."

He steps back. "Things have been hard at work ..."

I won't let him get away with that. "Dad."

"You're right, no excuses." The briefcase dangles from his fingers. "I'll try to do a better job, okay?"

My breath flies out. "It's just, Gramps has been super cranky lately and everything, and I've been at soccer a lot, and there's some bully jerk beating on Benji at school, and he just needs you; he's a little vulnerable right now."

This stops him.

"Aimee," he says. "When are we not vulnerable?"

* 6 *

ALAN.

At home I grab a granola bar from a cabinet and change into sweatpants and running shoes. Courtney goes straight to her room and slams the door. I leave my room and call out, "I'm going for a walk."

She doesn't answer, so I gallop down the stairs and out the front door, leaving it unlocked because I still don't have a key. There are woods behind the house and I want to explore them. I go to the end of the block, turn, and follow a trail toward the tree line.

Woods are something we don't have in Oklahoma. Not like this. Not where I lived in the city. When I turned sixteen and got my driver's license I had to drive from Oklahoma City to Thunderbird Lake out past Norman to find real forest. I told Mom I was sleeping over at Chance Botkin's house for a couple of nights, then went to the state park for my vision quest.

I read what I can about American Indians in general, but focus mostly on the nations of the Southwest, specifically the Navajo. At p.u.b.erty, I learned, boys would go on a vision quest, where they'd find their totem guide, and sometimes even learn their purpose in life. I fasted for two days before my trip to Lake Thunderbird. When I got there I gutted the floor out of my canvas tent and created a little sweat lodge-as best I could-inside the tent. I sat in it for the first morning, still not eating. After the sweat lodge experience, which was really intense, I read all the prayers to the Great Spirit I'd found in books and on the Internet.

That night I chewed a small piece of the peyote I'd also bought on the Internet. Three days without food, a morning in a sweat lodge, then chewing peyote. Yeah, who wouldn't have visions? If it wasn't for the things now in my medicine pouch, I might have believed what I saw were only hallucinations.

That's where Onawa came to me. Different totem animals represent different things. The cougar is supposed to be a leader, conscious of its own strength, and a messenger between humans and G.o.ds or spirits. People with a cougar totem are supposed to have those traits, too. I'm not sure I do.

My medicine pouch b.u.mps my chest as I climb a short rise into thicker trees. It is so quiet here. Very still. The ground is soft and springy with old pine needles. The air is moist and heavy. The only sound is my own feet moving me forward. I top the rise and look down a gentle slope filled with more trees. At the bottom I can see the sparkle of water. It has to be a river. I make my way down the hill until I come out of the trees onto the bank of the river. It's slow here, but looks pretty deep. I've seen the ocean when we were driving around; this must feed into it.

"What I wouldn't give for a canoe right now," I mutter. My voice seems alien here, just like I seem alien here, but the thing is, I really like the river and the trees. Still, it wasn't just the football issue that made me angry about moving here. It was also my dad. I know that he's never tried to find me, but moving here? It makes it seem like I'll never find him, either.

I make my way back up the hill, out of the woods and onto the street. The evening is getting dark. Lights are on in the houses between the end of the road and Aunt Lisa's. As I get closer, I see that Courtney has turned on her bedroom light. Then I stop. There's a shape silhouetted in her window.

It's a man.

A big man.

All I can see is a tall, broad-shouldered black shape on the other side of her thin pink curtains. The shape seems to be looking out the window. Looking at me.

I sprint for the house, throw open the door, and fly up the stairs. I hesitate at Courtney's door, then grab the k.n.o.b and fling it open. It smells like roadkill baked in the sun. Courtney's on her bed. She jumps up when I rush in. She tries to hide a book behind her as she starts screaming at me.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing? Get out! Get out of my room!"

She's completely alone.

"I thought I saw somebody in here," I say. "A man. I thought-"

"Get! Out! Now!"

I leave. I close the door and go to my own room, where I throw myself on the bed. "Psycho b.i.t.c.h from h.e.l.l," I tell the ceiling.

There was no man in her room. Just her, the smell of decay, her girly stuff, and some book she didn't want me to see.

I get off the bed and go to my stacks of boxes and start unpacking the things I brought with me from home. My real home. A few minutes later my cell phone rings. It's the first call I've had since moving up here. I still have an Oklahoma number, of course. The ringtone is Danzig's "Mother," which means it's Mom calling me.

"Come outside," she says when I answer.

Headlights flash through the windows as a vehicle turns into the driveway. They're followed by a second set. I could look out, but I don't. I just go downstairs and out the front door, and there's Mom and Aunt Lisa beaming at me in front of a sweet 1972 Ford F-150 pickup that appears to be in cherry condition.

"If you like it, he said I can bring your money tomorrow," Mom says. She's almost bouncing. "Lisa called and he e-mailed us some pictures and I knew it was perfect for you."

I make myself stop and give her a hard and tight hug before I open the door and slide into the cab. Finally, I am mobile again. Independent. Sweet!

"I'm going to take it for a spin," I announce, my hands gently stroking the big old steering wheel, then the gear shift, down to the ignition.

"I don't know, Alan," Mom says. "You don't have insurance on it. You don't even have a Maine driver's license."

"Oh, Holly, leave him alone," Aunt Lisa argues. "Alan, stay in the city limits. If Nathan Wainscott pulls you over, you just tell him who you are and that you bought this truck from John Farley tonight."

"Nathan Wainscott?" I ask.

"He's the night cop," Aunt Lisa says. "Don't do anything wrong and he won't bother you."

"I won't," I promise. I turn the key and the engine roars to life, then idles as smooth as silk. I know I'm grinning like an idiot.

I close the door and drop the gearshift into reverse. The truck rolls out of the driveway. The brakes feel firm. I put it in drive and tap the accelerator. The old Ford eases forward, and we're off. There are no misses, no knocks, no odd sounds at all, and no lights on that shouldn't be. The heater blows hot. The radio works. The wipers work. No air-conditioning, but maybe they don't need that in Maine.

I soon realize just how small Goffstown is. This town would be jealous of a speck on the map. I drive through neighborhoods, past a grocery store, around the high school, along a b.u.mpy back road, and finally end up back at Aunt Lisa's house. I park behind her SUV and kill the engine.

No more school bus!

I pocket the keys and go into the house. Everybody's huddled around the table.

"Alan!" Aunt Lisa motions for me to sit down.

"I'll eat in my room." Courtney glares at me before grabbing her plate and heading up the stairs. I watch her go as I make my way toward the table.

"Alan, did you go in her room without knocking?" Mom asks. Both her and Aunt Lisa are looking at me, waiting for an answer.

I nod, guilty. "Yeah."

"Why?" Mom asks.

"I ..." I thought I saw the boogeyman in her window. Can't say that. "I went for a walk after school. When I was coming back I thought I saw something in the window. I was worried about her."

My mom repeats what I said like she's trying to convince herself to believe me. "You were worried about her."

"Aimee called while you were gone," Aunt Lisa says, changing the topic. "She wants you to call her back, Alan." She pauses and her eyebrows kind of come together and a deep line forms over her nose. She's trying to think of something to say.

Aimee called and wanted to talk to me. Why?

Mom drops her gaze to the table and I do, too. There are hamburger fixings laid out on plates. I reach for a bun.

"Wash up, Alan, and sit down to eat," Mom says. "I want you to be extra nice to Courtney, okay?"

I wash my hands and sit back down to eat my second hamburger of the day. I let a few minutes go by before I ask, "Did you say Aimee called for me?"

"She's been dating Blake Stanley for a long time," Aunt Lisa says. "Personally, I think all his brains are in his muscles."

I think of how I beat him in the seven-mile today and how, if his brains are in his muscles, he still isn't very well off. I force myself not to gobble down the burger in two bites. I can feel the two women watching me and I know they know I'm much more excited than I'm letting on. They pretend to talk about things at the mill, but their eyes keep sliding back to me and tiny smiles play around their mouths. I can't take it anymore. I cram the last quarter of the burger into my mouth and wash it down with a swig of c.o.ke.

"I guess I'll call her back," I say, getting up from the table.

"Gonna talk about her boyfriend?" Mom teases.

Aunt Lisa points me toward the wireless phone and recites a number for me. The phone starts buzzing in my ear.

"That's her cell number, in case you're interested," she adds. "And the phone gets reception upstairs, if you want some privacy."

I think about staying downstairs just to prove there's nothing going on, but I can't. I take the stairs two at a time and Aimee answers when I'm about halfway up.

"Hey, Aimee. It's Alan," I say. "Alan Parson. The new guy at school."

"I know who you are, Alan." It sounds like she's smiling. Is she smiling? I hope she's smiling. I make it to the top of the stairs and into my room.

"I heard you called looking for me."

"I did."

"What's up?"

"I was just checking to make sure you were okay. We were talking on the way home. I can't believe you outran Blake."

She really did call to talk about her boyfriend? c.r.a.p! Does she want me to let him beat me? I keep my voice as neutral as I can. "Well, I guess. He's good. I just got the jump on him there the last hundred yards or so."

"He was so furious. He drove home at like ninety miles per hour. He's super compet.i.tive, you know. n.o.body's bested him since middle school."

"Oh."

"Compet.i.tion is good for him, but he ... he took it hard or something. He wasn't himself," she says, and then there's a silence, like maybe the words have more meaning than cross-country. No, that's stupid. I'm putting connotations to her words. Connotations. That's one of those words we had to learn in English cla.s.s.

"Compet.i.tion is good for any athlete," I say, because it feels like I have to say something. There's another long pause that feels really awkward. "So, you okay? No more woozy spells like at lunch?"

"No, I'm fine. Sorry. I hope I didn't freak you out. It was just so weird. I'm good, really. Thanks for helping me."

"That's cool. I was worried about you for a second there."

She pauses. "Um. That's really nice of you, but I'm okay. I'm so sorry I made you worry."

"Yeah. Well ..." There has to be something to say. Why'd she really call? I grope just to keep her on the line. "How about biology? Is Swanson always so boring?"

She laughs a little, but it sounds like it's just a polite laugh. "Mr. Monotone," she says. "There's no inflection to his voice, unless you can make him mad. Then he's like a volcano. His eyes get all red. If he's just minor-league mad, he'll yell at the cla.s.s. If he's super-insane mad he storms out of the room and slams the door, then comes back for a while and sends somebody to the office for sniffing or slouching or whatever. He's not bad, though. Kind of funny sometimes. They say he smokes pot during his planning period to stay mellow."

Long silence.

I break it. "So, did you call to tell me Blake's mad at me?"

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that. He's not mad at you, specifically, you know, as an individual. He's just mad that somebody beat him." She hesitates. "But no, that's not why I called."

"Okay."

She pauses again. "Okay. Um ... Well, basically, I saw your painting in Mr. Burnham's cla.s.s."

Holy c.r.a.p! I forgot about that. I can feel the blood rushing to the surface of my face. "You did?"

"Yeah."

Did she recognize herself ? Stupid question. Of course she did. She wouldn't be calling if she hadn't.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I was thinking about ... something else and just painting. You know, just letting my hands work, and then Burnham told me I'd missed the bell. I didn't even realize I was painting that. Well, you know, that I was painting you."

"You didn't know you were painting me?" She sounds like she doesn't believe it.

"No."

"So, you're saying you subconsciously painted me screaming while ghosts are swirling around behind me and a cougar is watching it all?"

"A cougar?" Could she really have recognized Onawa's eyes? That would be too freaky.

"It wasn't a cougar? Those weren't cougar eyes?"

"Yeah," I admit. "I just didn't think you'd recognize them."

"Alan, I want to ask you something. You'll probably think I'm crazy for asking, but when I saw your painting it really freaked me out." She pauses for a long time. "Oh ... I can't do it. I'm sorry. I can't do it. I should go."

"I won't think you're crazy," I say really fast.

"Okay ... You have to promise not to think I'm a freak or anything. I know freak is a bad word, but, um ... can you just promise?"

"I promise." I think she's a lot of things, but freak is not one of them.

She pulls in her breath so hard I can hear it over the phone, then she blurts out, "Do you have dreams that, you know, come true?"