He shifted his stance, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. "We both lost here."

"So, what, you're here to commiserate? Don't even pretend we've been through the same thing. You lost some game. I lost..." My voice caught as if on a fishing hook.

"Whether you like it or not, you're still my future. I have to know..." He stepped closer and grabbed my hand. "You have to tell me, how did you do it? How did you stay young during the Feed?"

I twisted my hand out of his grasp and took a couple of steps back.

"Even if I knew, what makes you think I'd tell you?"

Finally a hint of his smirk danced on his mouth. "Because I have ninety-nine years until I have to Feed again." He stepped forward. "I have all the time in the world. What, in your infinite knowledge of me, makes you think I'd ever give up?"

I squinted at him in the sunlight. "Cole, do you feel anything for me?" I don't know what made me ask this, except that Jack had asked him the night of the Tunnels. It obviously surprised him.

He backed up. "What?"

I inched forward, not quite sure where I was going with this. "Do you feel ... something for me?"

He was quiet, still as a statue, so I moved even closer.

"Don't, Nik." His gaze dropped to the ground.

"If you feel anything, please leave me alone. I don't know why I survived. I don't have your answer. Shadowing me will get you nothing."

Then he did something unexpected. He backed down, and as he turned around to his motorcycle, he shook his head and mumbled, "What have you done to me?"

"I don't know," I said. "But you have ninety-nine years to figure it out."

He kicked it on and revved the engine, and at the sound, he found his c.o.c.ky smirk again. "That's a long time, Nik. Jack is gone, and I'm here. Let's see who gives up first."

I stayed there until he drove away, his tires screeching against the asphalt, then I let out a sigh. The sun had set and I felt that familiar tug pulling me to my bedroom. My tether to Jack coaxed me there every night, just like a rubber band drawing me in.

The thing was, I knew exactly how I had survived. Mary had been on to something with her anchor theory, but she was a little unclear on the logistics. Jack told me he dreamed of me every night, and it was as if I were really there. I was in a dark place, and he helped me see.

Now Jack was invading my dreams every night. Not a dream Jack, but the real thing.

I know this because during one of the first dreams, he told me what the tattoo on his arm said. Ever Yours. The next morning, I rushed to draw the image from memory, and then I researched it.

The symbols were artistic versions of ancient Sanskrit words. They stood for eternity and belonging. Ever Yours, just as Jack had said. There was no way my subconscious could have come up with that explanation on its own.

I'd finally found the connection Meredith had longed for, the tether from an anchor that kept a Forfeit alive. They were bound together through their dreams, sustaining each other during sleep.

When I was asleep, Jack would come to my bedroom and sit on the end of the mattress and face me. He came to me every night, talking about his uncle's cabin, the Christmas Dance, how my hair hides my eyes, how my hand fits in his, how he loves me. How he'll never leave. I spent the first few dreams saying "I'm sorry" over and over and over, until he threatened to stay away if I didn't stop.

My dad wondered why I couldn't wait to go to bed every night. "You sure you're feeling okay, Nikki?" he would say. "I've never seen someone sleep so much."

"I'm good, Dad. I'm probably just making up for all those sleepless nights."

Since Jack left, my dad had been trying to spend more time with me, going out of his way to relate to me. Maybe he was worried I might leave again.

I wasn't going anywhere. The Tunnels had forgotten about me. Jack's sacrifice meant that I had my family back, and even though our fractured relationships had a ways to go, my home life was suddenly a stronghold in my otherwise messed-up world.

I had escaped the Tunnels. I had my family back. And in a way, I had Jack, too. The pain of loss was fresh every night, but I no longer begged to have it taken away. I owned it.

I revised my paper for Mrs. Stone's cla.s.s. I'd found my redemption, and my hero. And I was going to get him back.

AT NIGHT.

My bedroom, as I drift.

Every night, Jack is with me.

He lies down on his side, lengthwise on my bed, and props his head up on my pillow. I mirror his position. He places his hand over mine. I see it, but I don't feel it. We discovered long ago that we can't touch, even in our dreams. I am as much of a ghost to him as he is to me. We are a breath away-and a world apart-from each other.

He doesn't know where he goes when he's not with me. He doesn't think he exists anymore, except for in my dreams.

I think he is right. And I tell him to hang on. I will never stop dreaming of him.

I will find him.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Brace yourselves: This is going to be long. It takes a village to raise a novel, and this book owes its existence to one giant, crazy village.

First off, a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek to the folks at DGLM, especially my agent, Michael Bourret, who is one-half advocate, one-half shrink, and the other third kindred soul. Thank you for seeing the beauty in the beastly draft that I sent you, and for talking me down from the ledge on a regular basis. And for loving tennis just as much as I do. Added kisses for Lauren Abramo and her stellar work abroad on behalf of Everneath.

Next, high fives all around to the entire team at Balzer + Bray and HarperCollins. Special thanks to Sara Sargent and my editor, Kristin Daly Rens, who fell in love with the story of Everneath months before it was even submitted. You taught me to never stop asking questions and digging deeper. The Everneath came to vivid life because of you. Also thanks to the many people behind the scenes, including even more editors, copy editors, and the enthusiastic sales, design, and marketing teams.

Slaps on the b.u.ms (football-team style) for my writing group, the SIX (aptly named because we are all six feet tall): Bree Despain, Emily Wing Smith, Kimberly Webb Reid, Valynne Maetani Nagamatsu, and Sara Bolton. Without your brilliant critiques, endless readings of c.r.a.ppy drafts, and emergency runs to In-N-Out Burger, this book would be a flaming pile of goo.

Hugs all around for friends who have helped me through the madness of trying to get a book published, either by reading early drafts or providing emotional support and chocolate: Amy Jefferies, Diane Adair, Anne Petty, Matthew J. Kirby, Alissa Owen, Raina Williams, Debbie Lambson, Jenni Elyse, Robin Weeks, Karin Brown, Amy Weech, and especially Dorien Nielson, who read the earliest version when it was only twenty pages long and I was getting it ready to be critiqued at a conference.

Thank you to Martine Leavitt and the rest of my WIFYR 2009 workshop group for their insights. Thank you to many more blog friends, Twitter friends, real-life friends, and book bloggers who have watched my journey from the beginning and thrown their enthusiastic support behind this book. You know who you are!

Chest b.u.mps to my extended families, including Frank and Kathleen, the Johnsons, the Otts, the Jacksons, the Ellingsons, and the other Johnsons, and endless nieces and nephews who also were subjected to early drafts. Special thanks to Eden Ellingson, who gave me the idea to write a book in the first place.

A noogie on the head for my sister, Erin, who shouted the praises of c.r.a.ppy first drafts and was ready with a pair of bra.s.s knuckles for anyone who thought differently. I'd want you on my side of any battle! Extra noogies for her husband, Dave.

A kiss on the forehead for my mom and dad, who raised me to believe I could do anything and celebrated every step of the journey, from false starts and rejections to that magical day when I got THE CALL.

A pinch on the cheek for my boys, Carter and Beckham, for reminding me there is life outside of my books.

Most of all, a smack on the kisser for Sam. You never let me give up. You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. You are the best man I know. It's you and me against the world. Love you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

BRODI ASHTON received a bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Utah and a master's degree in international relations from the London School of Economics. Brodi has an active following on her blog, which can be found at www.brodiashton.blogspot.com. She lives in Utah with her family. EVERNEATH is her debut novel.

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