She opened the door and went inside.

It was a big room, fluorescently well lit, with a long table at one end that held a coffeemaker, cups, and what looked like a high school bake sale array of treats. Several metal chairs formed a large circle in the center of the room. A box of Kleenex was positioned on the floor by each chair.

Great.

There were already four kids here, seated in the chairs. Marah looked at the other ... patients? participants? nutcases?... through the black hair falling in front of her eyes. There was a very large girl with pimply skin and greasy hair who was chewing so hard on her thumbnail she looked like an otter trying to open an oyster. Beside her was a girl so thin that if she turned sideways, she'd vanish. She had a bald spot on the side of her head. Next to her sat a girl dressed all in black, with magenta-colored hair and enough facial piercings to play tic-tac-toe. She slouched away from a plump boy in horn-rimmed glasses beside her who was playing with his phone.

Dr. Bloom sat in the circle, too, wearing fitted navy pants and a gray turtleneck. As neutral as Switzerland. Marah wasn't fooled: there was nothing casual about the eagle-eyed way Dr. Bloom looked at her.

"We're glad you could join us, Marah. Aren't we, group?" Dr. Bloom said.

A few of the kids shrugged. Most didn't bother to even look up.

Marah took a seat by the heavy girl. She had barely taken her place when the door creaked open and Paxton walked in. As before, he was dressed like a goth, in black jeans and unlaced boots and a poorly fitted black T-shirt. A tattoo of words snaked over the ridge of his collarbone and curled up his throat. Marah looked away quickly.

He sat down across from Marah, next to the girl with the magenta hair.

Marah waited to the count of fifty to look at him again.

He was staring at her, smiling like he thought she was hot for him. She rolled her eyes and looked away.

"Well, it's seven o'clock, so we can get started," Dr. Bloom said. "As you can see, we have a new member: Marah. Who would like to make the introductions?"

There was a lot of looking away and chewing on nails and shrugging. Finally, Magenta Hair said, "Oh, hell. I'm Ricki. Dead mom. The fat chick's Denise. Her grandma has Parkinson's. Todd hasn't spoken in four months, so we don't know what his problem is. Elisa stopped eating when her dad killed himself. And Pax is here by court order. Dead sister." She looked at Marah. "What's your story?"

Marah felt everyone looking at her.

"I ... I..."

"Mr. Football didn't ask her to the prom," the heavy girl said, giggling nervously at her own joke.

A few of the other kids snickered.

"We're not here to judge each other," Dr. Bloom said. "You all know how much that hurts, don't you?"

That shut them up.

"Cutter," Pax said quietly. He sat slouched in his chair, one arm draped across Magenta Hair's chair and one leg crossed over the other. "But why?"

Marah looked up sharply.

"Paxton," Dr. Bloom said. "This is a support group. Life is hard. You've all learned that at an early age. Each of you has experienced a profound loss and you know how hard it can be to keep going when a loved one has died or someone charged with caring for you has betrayed that sacred trust."

"My mother died," Marah said evenly.

"Would you like to talk about her?" Dr. Bloom asked gently.

Marah couldn't look away from Paxton. His golden gaze mesmerized her. "No."

"Who would?" he said quietly.

"How about you, Paxton?" Dr. Bloom said. "Do you have something you'd like to share with the group?"

"Never to suffer would never to have been blessed," he said with a negligent shrug.

"Now, Paxton," Dr. Bloom said, "we've talked about hiding behind other people's words. You're almost twenty-two years old. It's time to find your own voice."

Twenty-two.

"You don't want to hear what I have to say," Paxton said. Although he was slumped down and appeared uninterested in everyone around him, his eyes held an intensity that was unnerving, almost scary.

Court order.

Why would the court order someone to grief therapy?

"On the contrary, Paxton," Dr. Bloom said evenly, "you've been coming here for months and you haven't talked about your sister once."

"And I won't," he said, looking now at his black fingernails.

"The court-"

"Can order me to come, but it can't make me talk."

Dr. Bloom pursed her lips in disapproval. She stared at Paxton for a long moment and then smiled again, turning slightly so that her attention was on Stick Girl. "Elisa, perhaps you'd like to tell us more about how eating went this week..."

An hour later, as if by some secret alarm, the kids lurched out of their seats and rushed from the room. Marah hadn't been prepared. By the time she bent down to retrieve her purse from the floor and stood up, only Dr. Bloom was still there.

"I hope that wasn't too painful," the doctor said, walking over to her. "Beginnings can be difficult."

Marah looked past her to the open door. "No. Fine. I mean yes. Thanks. It was great."

Marah couldn't wait to get out of this room that smelled of stale cookies and burnt coffee. She ran outside and came to a sudden stop. The streets were crowded. On this Wednesday night in June, Pioneer Square was full of tourists and locals. Music spilled out of the taverns and bars.

Paxton appeared out of the darkness beside her; she heard him breathing a split second before she saw him. "You're waiting for me," he said.

She laughed. "Yeah, because guys in makeup really rev my engines." She turned to face him. "You were waiting for me."

"What if I was?"

"Why?"

"You'll have to come with me to find out." He held out his hand.

In the yellowy light from the streetlamp, she saw his pale hand and long fingers ... and the scars that ran like an equal sign across his wrist.

Cut marks.

"Now you're scared," he said quietly.