More romantic.

If the guys could only hear my thoughts. But it's true. More romantic, but also more sad. More melancholy.

I take my plate of food and sit down at a table near the window. I just stare outside as I eat. Iris brings me a can of pop, which I thank her for. As I open it, I see a bluebird fly down and sit on the edge of the railing. I wonder if it's the same one that greeted me by biting my hand the other day. It sits there and faces me, as if it's watching me.

As if it's watching and waiting for me.

Add creepier to that list of adjectives fitting these mountains.

I eat my lunch, and the bluebird just sits and rests and watches.

I'm not sure how long of a lunch break I have, so I eat my lunch in about ten minutes and bring my empty plate and can into the kitchen. As I come back out, hoping to see Iris, someone else walks into the dining room. For a second I'm a little freaked out, since I didn't know anybody else was there. I wonder if this man works here or is a family member.

"Hello," he says.

For a moment I feel my muscles tense up and my body start to shake. I say hi as I pass him by. He's maybe forty-something and seems ordinary and friendly enough. I hear him go into the kitchen, and I'm glad that I don't have to make small talk. Something about the guy makes me want to run away.

"Feel like cutting more wood?"

I turn to see Iris coming my way. She has an amused look on her face.

"Sure," I say in a voice that wouldn't convince anybody.

She laughs. "I think you've cut enough wood to last me through the winter. Just remember-be honest, or I'll make your words come true."

"Okay."

"So, do you feel like cutting more wood?"

"Maybe not for another ten or twenty years."

The smile I see on her face surprises me. Even though she's ancient, there's something very youthful about it. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen someone so old smile such a nice smile.

Maybe I just need to be around old people a little more.

"I've got some work for you to do inside. That sound okay?"

"Sure."

At the end of the day, after calling my mom and telling her that she can pick me up at five, Iris comes to me and hands me ten twenty-dollar bills.

"I hope you don't mind me paying you in cash."

"No."

I can't remember the last time I've held this much cash in my hand. Maybe never.

"Thank you for your hard work."

"Sure," I say again.

"Did you get tired of hauling those boxes of books down to the basement?"

For a second I'm about to give an answer that means nothing, then I remember what she told me earlier.

"They were pretty heavy."

"Hardcover books tend to be that way. That room was once a library of sorts, and it's become a bit unmanageable. We're going to make it into another bedroom."

"Okay."

She smiles. "That's we as in you and me."

"Sounds good."

She glances at her watch and tightens her lips. "We have fifteen minutes before your mother comes. Let's sit for a while."

It's already dark outside, and there's only one window in the main room. I sit on the couch, facing her.

"Tell me something, Chris. What do you believe?"

After a day of working with little communication with anybody else, the question is baffling. For a moment I don't reply.

"Rather large question for simple chitchat while we wait, right?" she says.

"Believe about what?"

"About life and death. What do you believe?"

I clear my throat as I try to figure out an answer.

I don't believe in anything. Not a thing. Not now and not ever.

"I don't know."

Those eyes look at me like I've done something wrong. They make me want to climb over the couch and hide behind it.

"At the end of every day, I ask myself what it is that I believe. And I think that the sad thing about so many people is that they can go their entire life without asking that question. Or fully answering it."

I nod, nervous, wishing that Mom might be early, wondering if Iris is going to be all spiritual and holy with me every time I work.

"What if you knew you were going to die at midnight tonight?" she asks. "What would you do?"

"Maybe hold a big going-away party?"

"You don't have to do that. Not with me."

"Do what?"

"Use sarcasm to cover up the awkward feeling inside of you. It's okay. Talks like this-talks of importance-usually make people uncomfortable."

"I'm fine."

But we both know I'm really not.

"Chris, will you do something for me this next week?"

"Sure."

"Next Saturday I'd like for you to answer that question. Answer it the best way you possibly can. And don't worry-I can see it on your face. I'm not going to judge you or force you to hear about something you don't want to hear about. I've done that sort of thing before, and I ... I'd just like to know what you believe."

"Okay."

I see the lights of what has to be my mom's car outside. Iris stands, and I follow her to the door.

"You surprised me today. It's not often that I'm surprised anymore."

I'm not sure how I surprised her, and I don't have any idea how or why, so I nod and say thanks.

This wasn't the day I was expecting.

I walk out in the cold, and as I walk to the car, I swear I hear a bird flying above me.

39. Promises to Keep.

I should be doing my French homework because I'm really bombing the class. It doesn't help that I wasn't doing that great in French back home, and then I came here and ended up in a far more advanced class. The teacher, Mrs. Desmarais, who looks like she walked off the set of Ratatouille, is short and speaks with a thick accent. But I imagine that she goes home and cooks grits and talks with a Southern accent and sleeps next to a guy named Billy Bob.

Perhaps thoughts like this and not paying attention in class are why I'm bombing out.

So I should be doing my homework because all they do is talk French in the class and all I do is fear being called on. Instead I'm reading a book of Robert Frost poems that I checked out of the library.

As I read them, I imagine Jocelyn doing the same. In fact, I imagine her reading the very same book I'm reading, her hands holding the hard cover and her delicate fingers turning the pages. Even though I don't fully get what I'm reading, I'm moved because I imagine a connection.

Any connection now is better than none at all.

And all I want is a connection to her.

All I want is to see her again.

The Frost poems blend and merge like song lyrics.

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

The wind outside shakes the house, and the light in my room seems dim. I fumble through lines and scan pages and go over poems that seem a lot like French. Occasionally a line stands out.

No bird is singing now, and if there is, Be it my loss.

I read the words and feel sad and feel sorry. I just want to know. I want to know why they killed Jocelyn. Is it because some people around here are utterly crazy? Or is there some bigger conspiracy, some darker evil?

What do you believe?

I don't know. I don't know anymore. It was easy to tell Dad what I didn't believe. I didn't believe in him or in anything he believed in. That was the easy way out. But now I'm not so sure.

Jocelyn found faith before she died.

Was that why she died? Was it because she knew she was about to go?

Blood has been harder to dam back than water.

Maybe anything in life can be related to what you're going through. Song lyrics by The Cure. A Bible passage. A random reading in French. Or a poem by Frost.

I keep reading, but my random thoughts wander across the poems and into the darkness of the night.

I don't just want justice and for the bad men and women to be punished. I want to know why. Why did they have to do it to someone like Jocelyn?

I stumble upon another poem that sounds familiar and that seems easier to read than the others. After a line about lovely and dark woods I read this: But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.

I carry these words with me to bed, to the safe confines of blankets shared with Midnight. I think of Jocelyn and remember.

I'll never forget. I'll never let go. And I'll find out why, Joss. I promise. If that's all I ever do, I promise I will find out the truth and make them pay.

40. A Different Language.

Newt looks especially disheveled today, like he just woke up from sleeping all weekend. I don't get what he's talking about at the moment. I'm taking a while to wake up from sleeping on the bus myself.

"The zip drive."

"Oh, yeah."

"Figured you'd be asking about it."

"Well, yeah."

"I spent all weekend trying to figure it out. I need to bring it to someone who knows more about computers."

"You have someone in mind?"