"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I do, but..." The truth is, I'm not sure what I mean. I can't think or speak clearly. A single word is swirling around inside me-a storm, a hurricane-and I have to squeeze my lips together to keep it from swelling up to my tongue and fighting its way out into the open. Love, love, love, love Love, love, love, love. A word I've never p.r.o.nounced, not to to anyone, a word I've never even really let myself think. anyone, a word I've never even really let myself think.

"You don't have to explain." Alex takes another step backward. Again I have the sense, confusedly, that we're actually talking about something else. I've disappointed him somehow. Whatever has just pa.s.sed between us-and something did, even if I'm not sure what or how or why-has made him sad. I can see it in his eyes, even though he's still smiling, and it makes me want to apologize, or throw my arms around him and ask him to kiss me. But I'm still afraid to open my mouth-afraid that the word will come shooting out, and terrified about what comes afterward.

"Come here." Alex sets the book down and offers me his hand. "I want to show you something."

He leads me over to the bed, and again a wave of shyness overtakes me. I'm not sure what he expects, and when he sits down I hang back, feeling self-conscious.

"It's okay, Lena," he says. As always, hearing him say my name relaxes me. He scoots backward on the bed and lies down on his back and I do the same, so we're lying side by side. The bed is narrow. There's just enough room for the two of us.

"See?" Alex says, tilting his chin upward.

Above our heads, the stars flare and glitter and flash: thousands and thousands of them, so many thousands they look like snowflakes whirling away into the inky dark. I can't help it; I gasp. I don't think I've ever seen so many stars in my life. The sky looks so close-strung so taut above our heads, beyond the roofless trailer-it feels as though we're falling into it, as though we could jump off the bed and the sky would catch us, hold us, bounce us like a trampoline.

"What do you think?" Alex asks.

"I love it." The word pops out, and instantly the weight on my chest dissipates. "I love it," I say again, testing it. An easy word to say, once you say it. Short. To the point. Rolls off the tongue. It's amazing I've never said it before.

I can tell Alex is pleased. The smile in his voice grows bigger. "The no-plumbing thing is kind of a b.u.mmer," he says. "But you have to admit the view is killer."

"I wish we could stay here," I blurt out, and then quickly stutter, "I mean, not really. Not for good, but... You You know what I mean." know what I mean."

Alex moves his arm under my neck, so I inch over and lay my head in the spot where his shoulder meets his chest, where it fits perfectly. "I'm glad you got to see it," he says.

For a while we just lie there in silence. His chest rises and falls with his breathing, and after a while the motion starts to lull me to sleep. My limbs feel impossibly heavy, and the stars seem to be rearranging themselves into words. I want to keep looking, to read out their meaning, but my lids are heavy too: impossible, impossible to keep my eyes open.

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me that poem again." My voice doesn't sound like my own; my words seem to come from a distance.

"Which one?" Alex whispers.

"The one you know by heart." Drifting; I'm drifting.

"I know a lot of them by heart."

"Any one, then."

He takes a deep breath and begins: "'I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it....'"

He speaks on, words washing over me, the way that sunlight skips over the surface of water and filters into the depths below, lighting up the darkness. I keep my eyes closed. Amazingly, I can still see the stars: whole galaxies blooming from nothing-pink and purple suns, vast silver oceans, a thousand white moons.

It seems like I've only been asleep five minutes when Alex is gently shaking me awake. The sky is still inky black, the moon high and bright, but I can tell by the way the candles are pooling around us that I must have been out for at least an hour or so.

"Time to go," he says, brushing the hair off my forehead.

"What time is it?" My voice is thick with sleep.

"A little before three." Alex sits up and scoots off the bed, then reaches out a hand and pulls me to my feet. "We've got to cross before Sleeping Beauty wakes up."

"Sleeping Beauty?" I shake my head confusedly.

Alex laughs softly. "After poetry," he says, leaning down to kiss me, "we move on to fairy tales."

Then it's back through the woods; down the broken path that leads past the bombed-out houses; through the woods again. The whole time I feel as though I haven't quite woken up. I'm not even scared or nervous when we climb the fence. Getting over the barbed wire is infinitely easier the second time around, and I feel as though the shadows have texture, and shield us like a cloak. The guard at hut number twenty-one is still in the exact same position-head tilted back, feet on his desk, mouth open-and soon we're weaving our way around the cove. Then we're slipping silently through the streets toward Deering Highlands, and it's then I have the strangest thought, half dread and half wish: that maybe all of this is a dream, and when I wake up I will find myself in the Wilds. Maybe I'll wake up and find I've always always been there, and that all of Portland-and the labs, and the curfew, and the procedure-was some long, twisted nightmare. been there, and that all of Portland-and the labs, and the curfew, and the procedure-was some long, twisted nightmare.

37 Brooks: In through the window, and the heat and the smell of mildew slams us, a wall. I only spent a few hours there and I miss the Wilds already-the wind through the trees that sounds just like the ocean, the incredible smells of blooming plants, the invisible scurrying things-all that life, pushing and extending in every direction, on and on and on....

No walls....

Then Alex is leading me to the sofa and shaking out a blanket over me, kissing me and wishing me good night. He has the morning shift at the labs, and has just barely enough time to go home, shower, and make it to work on time. I hear his footsteps melting away into the darkness.

Then I sleep.

Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge; a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either side.

Before and and after after-and during during, a moment no bigger or longer than an edge.

Chapter Nineteen.

Live free or die.

-Ancient saying, provenance unknown, listed in the Comprehensive Compilation of Dangerous Words and Ideas, www.ccdwi.gov.org One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world-your little carved-out sphere-is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart. One day you have parents; the next day you're an orphan. One day you have a place and a path. The next day you're lost in a wilderness.

And still the sun rises and clouds ma.s.s and drift and people shop for groceries and toilets flush and blinds go up and down. That's when you realize that most of it-life, the relentless mechanism of existing-isn't about you. It doesn't include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you've jumped the edge. Even after you're dead.

When I make my way back into downtown Portland in the morning, that's what surprises me the most-how normal everything looks. I don't know what I was expecting. I didn't really think that buildings would have tumbled down overnight, that the streets would have melted into rubble, but it's still a shock to see a stream of people carrying briefcases, and shop owners unlocking their front doors, and a single car trying to push through a crowded street.

It seems absurd that they don't know know, haven't felt any change or tremor, even as my life has been completely turned upside down. As I head home I keep feeling paranoid, like someone will be able to smell the Wilds on me, will be able to tell just from seeing my face that I've crossed over. The back of my neck itches as though it's being poked with branches, and I keep whipping off my backpack to make sure there aren't any leaves or burrs clinging to it-not that it matters, since it's not like Portland is treeless. But no one even glances in my direction. It's a little before nine o'clock, and most people are rushing to get to work on time. An endless blur of normal people doing normal things, eyes straight ahead of them, paying no attention to the short, nondescript girl with a lumpy backpack pushing past them.

The short, nondescript girl with a secret burning inside of her like a fire.

It's as though my night in the Wilds has sharpened my vision around the edges. Even though everything looks superficially the same, it seems somehow different-flimsy, almost, as though you could put your hand through the buildings and sky and even the people. I remember being very young and watching Rachel build a sand castle at the beach. She must have worked on it for hours, using different cups and containers to shape towers and turrets. When it was done it looked perfect, like it could have been made out of stone. But when the tide came in, it didn't take more than two or three waves to dissolve its shape entirely. I remember I burst into tears, and my mother bought me an ice cream cone and made me share it with Rachel.

That's what Portland looks like this morning: like something in danger of dissolving.

I keep thinking about what Alex always says: There are more of us than you think There are more of us than you think. I sneak a glance at everyone who goes by, thinking maybe I'll be able to read some secret sign on their faces, some mark of resistance, but everyone looks the same as always: harried, hurried, annoyed, zoned out.

When I get home, Carol's in the kitchen washing dishes. I try to scoot past her, but she calls out to me. I pause with one foot on the stairs. She comes into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"How was Hana's?" she asks. She flicks her eyes all over my face, searchingly, as though checking for signs of something. I try to will back another bout of paranoia. She couldn't possibly know where I've been.

"It was fine," I say, shrugging, trying to sound casual. "Didn't get a lot of sleep, though."

"Mmm." Carol keeps looking at me intensely. "What did you girls do together?"

She never asks about Hana's house, and hasn't for years. Something's wrong Something's wrong, I think.

"You know, the usual. Watched some TV. Hana gets, like, seven channels." I can't tell if my voice sounds weird and high-pitched, or if I'm just imagining it.

Carol looks away, twisting her mouth up like she's accidentally gotten a mouthful of sour milk. I can tell she's trying to work out a way to say something unpleasant; she gets her sour-milk face whenever she has to give out bad news. She knows about Alex, she knows, she knows. She knows about Alex, she knows, she knows. The walls press closer and the heat is stifling. The walls press closer and the heat is stifling.

Then, to my surprise, she curls her mouth into a smile, reaches out, and places a hand on my arm. "You know, Lena... it won't be like this for very much longer."

I've successfully avoided thinking about the procedure for twenty-four hours, but now that awful, looming number pops back into my head, throwing a shadow over everything. Seventeen days.

"I know," I squeeze out. Now my voice definitely definitely sounds weird. sounds weird.

Carol nods, and keeps the strange half smile plastered to her face. "I know it's hard to believe, but you won't miss her once it's over."

"I know." Like there's a dying frog caught in my throat.

Carol keeps nodding at me really vigorously. It looks as though her head is connected to a yo-yo. I get the feeling she wants to say something more, something that will rea.s.sure me, but she obviously can't think of anything because we just stand there, frozen like that, for almost a minute.

Finally I say, "I'm going upstairs. Shower." It takes all my willpower just to get out the words. Seventeen days Seventeen days keeps tearing through my mind, like an alarm. keeps tearing through my mind, like an alarm.

Carol seems relieved that I've broken the silence. "Okay," she says. "Okay."

I start up the stairs two at a time. I can't wait to lock myself in the bathroom. Even though it must be more than eighty degrees in the house, I want to stand under a stream of beating hot water, melt myself into vapor.

"Oh, Lena." Carol calls out to me almost as an afterthought. I turn around and she's not looking at me. She's inspecting the fraying border of one of her dish towels. "You should put on something nice. A dress-or those pretty white slacks you got last year. And do your hair. Don't just leave it to air-dry."

"Why?" I don't like the way she won't look at me, especially since her mouth is going all screwy again.

"I invited Brian Scharff to come over today," she says casually, as though it's an everyday, normal thing.

"Brian Scharff?" I repeat dumbly. The name feels strange in my mouth, and brings with it the taste of metal.

Carol snaps her head up and looks at me. "Not alone alone," she says quickly. "Of course not alone. His mother will be coming with him. And I'll be here too, obviously. Besides, Brian had his procedure last month." As though that's that's what's bothering me. what's bothering me.

"He's coming here? Today?" I have to reach out and place one hand on the wall. Somehow I've managed to completely forget about Brian Scharff, that neat printed name on a page.

Carol must think I'm nervous about meeting him, because she smiles at me. "Don't worry, Lena. You'll be fine. We'll do most of the talking. I just thought you two should meet, since..." She doesn't finish her sentence. She doesn't have to.

Since we're paired. Since we'll be married. Since I'll share my bed with him, and wake up every day of my life next to him, and have to let him put his hands on me, and have to sit across from him at dinner eating canned asparagus and listening to him rattle on about plumbing or carpentry or whatever it is he's going to get a.s.signed to do.

"No!" I burst out.

Carol looks startled. She's not used to hearing that word, certainly not from me. "What do you mean, no no?"

I lick my lips. I know refusing her is dangerous, and I know that it's wrong. But I can't meet Brian Scharff. I won't. I won't sit there and pretend to like him, or listen to Carol talk about where we'll live in a few years, while Alex is out there somewhere-waiting for me to meet up with him, or tapping his fingers against his desk while he listens to music, or breathing, or doing anything at all. "I mean..." I struggle for an excuse. "I mean-I mean, couldn't we do it some other time? I don't really feel good." This, at least, is true.

Carol frowns at me. "It's an hour, Lena. If you can manage to sleep over at Hana's house, you can manage that."

"But-but-" I ball one fist up, squeezing my fingernails into my palm until pain starts blooming there, which gives me something to focus on. "But I want it to be a surprise."

Carol's voice takes on an edge. "There's nothing surprising surprising about this, Lena. This is the order of things. This is your life. He is your pair. You will meet him, and you will like him, and that's that. Now go upstairs and get in the shower. They'll be coming at one o'clock." about this, Lena. This is the order of things. This is your life. He is your pair. You will meet him, and you will like him, and that's that. Now go upstairs and get in the shower. They'll be coming at one o'clock."

One. Alex gets off work at noon today; I was supposed to meet him. We were going to have a picnic at 37 Brooks, like we always do whenever he comes off the morning shift, and enjoy the whole afternoon together. "But-" I start to protest, not even sure what else I can say.

"No buts." Carol crosses her arms and glares at me fiercely. "Upstairs."

I don't know how I make it up the stairs; I'm so angry I can barely see. Jenny's standing on the landing, chewing gum, dressed in one of Rachel's old bathing suits. It's too big for her. "What's wrong with you?" she says, as I push past her.

I don't answer. I make a beeline for the bathroom and turn the water on as high as it can go. Carol hates it when we waste water, and normally I make my showers as quick as I can, but today I don't care. I sit on the toilet and stuff my fingers in my mouth, biting down to keep from screaming. This is all my fault. I've been ignoring the date of the procedure, and I've avoided even thinking thinking Brian Scharff's name. And Carol is absolutely right: This is my life, and the order of things. There's no changing it. I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop being such a baby. Everyone has to grow up sometime; my time is on September 3. Brian Scharff's name. And Carol is absolutely right: This is my life, and the order of things. There's no changing it. I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop being such a baby. Everyone has to grow up sometime; my time is on September 3.

I go to stand up, but an image of Alex last night-standing so close to me, speaking those weird, wonderful words, I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach-knocks me down again, and I thud back onto the toilet.

Alex laughing, breathing, living-separately, unknown to me. Waves of nausea overtake me, and I double over with my head between my knees, fighting it.

The disease, I tell myself. The disease is progressing The disease is progressing. It will all be better after the procedure. That's the It will all be better after the procedure. That's the point point.

But it's no use. When I finally manage to get into the shower, I try to lose myself in the rhythm of the water pounding on the porcelain, but images of Alex flicker through my mind-kissing me, stroking my hair, dancing his fingers over my skin-dancing, flashing, like light from a candle, about to be snuffed out.

The worst is that I can't even let Alex know I won't be able to meet him. It's too dangerous to call him. My plan was to go to the labs and tell him in person, but when I come downstairs, showered and dressed, and head for the door, Carol stops me.

"Where do you think you're going?" she says sharply. I can tell she's still angry that I was arguing with her earlier-angry, and probably offended. She no doubt thinks I should be turning cartwheels because I've finally been paired. She has a right to think it-a few months ago, I would would have been turning cartwheels. have been turning cartwheels.

I turn my eyes to the ground, attempting to sound as sweet and meek as possible. "I just thought I'd take a walk before Brian comes." I try to conjure up a blush. "I'm kind of nervous."

"You've been spending enough time out of the house as it is," Carol snaps back. "And you'll only get sweaty and dirty again. If you want something to do, you can help me organize the linen closet."

There's no way I can disobey my aunt, so I follow her back upstairs and sit on the floor as she pa.s.ses ratty towel after ratty towel down to me, and I inspect them for holes and stains and damage, fold and refold, count napkins. I'm so angry and frustrated I'm shaking. Alex won't know what has happened to me. He'll worry. Or even worse, he'll think I'm deliberately avoiding him. Maybe he'll think going to the Wilds freaked me out.

It frightens me, how violent I'm feeling-crazy, almost, and capable of anything. I want to climb up the walls, burn down the house, something something. Several times I have the fantasy of taking one of Carol's stupid dish towels and strangling her with it. This is what all the textbooks and The The Book of Book of Shhh Shhh and parents and teachers have always warned me about. I don't know whether they're right or whether Alex is. I don't know whether these feelings-this and parents and teachers have always warned me about. I don't know whether they're right or whether Alex is. I don't know whether these feelings-this thing thing growing inside of me-is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me. growing inside of me-is something horrible and sick or the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Either way, I can't stop it. I've lost control. And the truly truly sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad. sick thing is that despite everything, I'm glad.

At twelve thirty Carol moves me downstairs to the living room, which I can tell has been straightened and cleaned. My uncle's shipping orders, which are usually scattered everywhere, have been stacked in a neat pile, and none of the old schoolbooks and broken toys that usually litter the floor are visible. She plops me down on a sofa and begins messing with my hair. I feel like a prize pig, but I know better than to say anything about it. If I do everything she tells me-if everything goes smoothly-maybe I'll still have time to go to 37 Brooks once Brian leaves.

"There," Carol says, stepping away and squinting at me critically. "That's as good as it's going to get."

I bite my lip and turn away. I don't want her to notice, but her words have sent a sharp pain through me. Amazingly, I'd actually forgotten that I'm supposed to be plain. I'm so used to Alex telling me I'm beautiful. I'm so used to feeling feeling beautiful around him. A hollow opens up in my chest. This is what life will be like without him: Everything will become ordinary again. beautiful around him. A hollow opens up in my chest. This is what life will be like without him: Everything will become ordinary again. I'll I'll become ordinary again. become ordinary again.

At a few minutes after one I hear the front gate squeak open and footsteps on the path. I've been so focused on Alex I haven't had time to get nervous about Brian Scharff's arrival. But now I have the wild urge to make a run for the back door, or hurtle through the open window. Thinking about what Carol would do if I went belly flopping through the screen brings on an uncontrollable fit of giggling.

"Lena," she hisses at me, just as Brian and his mother start knocking on the front door. "Control yourself."

Why? I'm tempted to fire back. It's not like he can do anything about it, even if he hates me. He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck. I'm tempted to fire back. It's not like he can do anything about it, even if he hates me. He's stuck with me and I'm stuck with him. We're stuck.

That's what growing up is all about, I guess.