Waking up was a slow process, like trying to swim through maple syrup. Her whole self felt sluggish, and it was a labor just to open her eyes. It was even more a labor to look through them and realize she had no idea where she was.

It didn't take long ('long' in a relative sense, of course—it felt like moving her eyes around the room took half an hour) to realize that she was in a hospital. After a little more effort to get a limb raised and the nerves under her skin working, she discovered the scratchy hospital gown she was wearing, which seemed to confirm the hypothesis. The antiseptic smell of the air helped too.

She tried to cast back over the recent past, to figure out how she'd got here. But if her limbs were slow, her memory was slower. In the end, she had no idea. And, before she could determine much, she fell asleep again.

The dream was the resumption of consciousness. Or maybe it was the beginning of it. In later years she would sometimes look back and wonder if it hadn't secretly been her birth.

She was still in some murky netherworld, but at least she could move again. She turned to look around, but there was nothing to see but endless, featureless grey; she knew, in the way you knew in dreams, that she could walk forever and still not see anything. The surroundings were not what was important.

He was.

She knew it was a he, even though she could not see his face or features; there were broad shoulders, a hint of short hair, a greater height than hers, but other than that he was like a walking shadow, barely distinguishable from the surrounding gloom. She wasn't even sure when he started to be there; it was as if he had simply evolved out of the mist.

"Who are you?" she said.

"I am your one true love," he said, as if it were self-evident.

"You are?"

"I am your soul mate. I am your husband. I am the man waiting for you on the other side."

"Then how come I... How come I don't know who you are?"

"Well, you don't know who I am, do you? So how could you know my face if you have never met me?"

"What if I have met you?" she challenged.

"I can see our years will be full of arguments," he said, sighing. "In answer to that, Danielle, perhaps you have. But if you have, you certainly didn't know me for who I was. This is a dream, you know... But even your subconscious mind doesn't know what I look like yet. I'm like the little red X you get on the Internet when the computer can't find the right picture. I can change my appearance to that if you would like me to."

She didn't bother dignifying that with a response. "Why are you here?"

"To ask you the same question."

"Me?" she said. "I don't even know where here is."

"This place?" he said, gesturing to the insusbstantial nothing all around them. "This place is meaningless. I meant, where your body is."

"Oh," she said, without enthusiasm. "The hospital."

"Yes," he said, "there." His voice was gentle, but it seemed to resonate within her chest; he sounded like Darth Vader. "Danielle, my beloved, what on earth were you thinking?"

"Thinking?"

"To do that. To hurt yourself like that. To give up." He seized her wrist, turning it face up. The cut was angry red, as if she had only slashed it open just this instant. "To do this."

She felt the cut itching, but she didn't pull her arm away. His touch was comforting.

"I don't know," she said. "It's just... I didn't... It's been so hard, to, to deal. My soul mate has..." Then she realized who she was speaking to, and felt her cheeks flame.

"Go on," he said. "David."

"You aren't going to... I mean, I was wrong. He's not my soul mate. You said you are. But I went around living my life as if... We gave each other our virginities. You're not going to get me all to yourself no matter what."

"Well," he said. "Sometimes that's life. Did you know there are people who go their whole lives without even meeting their soul mate?—or meeting them, but missing them, and not getting together in the end?" She felt his finger trace the line of her cheek; a lover's gesture. "At least we won't have to deal with that."

"But... Someone else has had sex with me. I won't... I won't be your one and only." She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"About what?" he said. "About making a judgment that, at the time, seemed good and wise? You loved him; he loved you. Neither of you could have predicted what had happened. Maybe if the two of you hadn't broke up, you wouldn't be here at all, and neither would I. None of us knows the future."

"You claim to," she said.

"That's true," he said. "But seeing as how it's your dream, I think we can safely blame that on you." Though his face was featureless and shadowed, she had the impression of a smirk.

"Shut up," she said, swatting him. It was the same gesture she had applied to David, a hundred thousand million times over the last ten years, and it brought a pang of sorrow. "Why are you here, anyhow?"

"To tell you not to give up," he said.

"Though things look bleak to you now, Danielle, there is still a future for you, and I think you know that. You have a choice. You can choose to succumb... Or you can choose to battle on."

"Doesn't seem like much of a choice right now," she grumbled.

"No, not now," he said. "But think of what you'd miss if you gave up."

She scuffed the dirt (there was dirt) with her feet, and gave no answer.

There was silence between them for a time; but it was a comfortable one. She and David had once been so close that there wasn't much they actually needed to say anymore; it hurt, to have that kind of silence, but it was hopeful too, that one day she might be able to have it with somebody else.

"Why did you come to tell me this," she said finally.

She suddenly felt as though he had locked eyes with her, and his hand lifted to stroke a strand of hair from her face. "Because I love you," he said.

"You're going to wake up soon, and you'll have to choose for yourself. But that's why I came." He embraced her; she felt the solid warmth of his chest under her arms, the beat of his heart. "To remind you that there's something worth fighting for. To remind you that someone loves you." He kissed her forehead, a feather-light touch of lips; something David had never done. "To remind you that there is always hope."

"So you say," she muttered. "You're not the one who just had her whole life turned upside down."

She felt rather than saw his sad smile. "That's true enough, my love. But if you kill yourself, how will you ever prove me wrong?"

There were people in the room. She could tell by the figures moving around, by the rustling of clothing. One of them said, "Oh my. Quick, run and tell Dr. Herriges that she's awake." A white-clad sentinel slid into her field of view. "Danielle Mayer?" said the same voice. "I'm Rebecca Moss, one of the nurses here. Glad you're back with us."

"W..." Danielle croaked. Her mouth felt like a desert. "Where am I back from?" The grey place, she thought, but that had only been a dream. Hadn't it?

"Well, you've didn't really go anywhere," said Nurse Moss with a smile. "You've been in this bed for over forty-eight hours. You were brought in very early in the morning on the 24th. It's the 26th today, by the way."

"Th... The 24th?" said Danielle. Her voice was barely a whisper. "That can't be right, school didn't start until the 27th."

"The 27th?" said Nurse Moss, confused. "Your parents said Winter Break ended on the 5th."

"Wi... Winter Break?" said Danielle. Someone passed Nurse Moss a drink with a straw, and Danielle gulped water from it eagerly. "What... Month is it?"

"January," said Nurse Moss, still with that doubt in her eyes.

Suddenly the pieces fell into place. January 24th was nothing in itself; but on January 23rd a certain David Glass had turned seventeen. After that, she had only to raise her arm to see the bandages on the insides of her wrists.

"Are you all right?" said Nurse Moss. "Tylenol and alcohol together don't normally cause memory loss, but... Well, you never know with the human brain. It's a tricky thing."

"No, it just..." said Danielle. "The last few months have been... Kind of a blur for me." The dream hadn't helped.

"Well, I'm sure your parents will be able to help you sort through it," said Nurse Moss, not unkindly. "They asked to be alerted the moment you awakened. My guess is they'll be here within the hour. Sooner, if your father drives the way I think he does."

"No, he's pretty civil," said Danielle. "...When something isn't going wrong, at least." She felt the surreality of the situation descend on her: here she was, seventeen years old, single, making casual chitchat with a nurse who held a cup with a straw for her, in the aftermath of her own suicide attempt. If there was a way for life to get weirder, she couldn't think of one.

Soon enough her parents arrived, Dad first (she must be at St. Mary's hospital, it was close to where he worked) and Mom not long after. Danielle was expecting anger, scolding, rage, threats to ground her for stupidity... But Dad rushed straight into the room and pulled her into a hug so fierce she thought her ribs would break, and she was startled to feel dampness in her hair. When he pulled away he gasped, "Don't you ever do that to us again, young lady, or we'll ground you for life," and even though it was weak she had to laugh.

When Mom came in, it was much the same. "Oh, Danielle. Danielle. Why didn't you say anything?? Do you have any idea how worried we've been??"

"You were... You were worried?" said Danielle.

"Honey, if you think we couldn't see how depressed you were getting... But we didn't think it would come to this!"

"I... I'm sorry," said Danielle. It was such a lame excuse, but it was all she could think of to say. The truth was, she hadn't noticed they'd noticed. She'd been dead to the world for most of the last five months. She wondered if Liz was still speaking to her.

Not long afterwards, the psychologist arrived, introducing himself as Aaron Freitas. Danielle wondered for a second why he had been called in, but then she glanced at her wrists and made the connection. He was an unassuming man, stoop-shouldered and balding, and he spoke in a quiet voice she had to strain to hear. "I'm sorry for interrupting you," he said, "but as part of standard in-patient procedure we do a threat assessment and make sure Danielle isn't going to relapse once she gets out. Also, if you had any questions during this, umm, difficult time, I may be able to answer them."

"I'm not going to relapse," said Danielle. "It was stupid and I'm not going to do it again."

Aaron Freitas paused halfway into to the chair. "Well, I've heard a lot of responses in my times, but never that one before. Let's see what we can learn about it.

"Now, I've read the case file, Mr. and Mrs. Mayer, but if possible I'd like to get the series of events from your own perspective. If that makes you uncomfortable, or you'd rather not talk about it in front of Danielle—"

"No, we might as well," said her father.

"The sequence of events starting from... Last night?" said her mother. "Or before then?"

"Why, did something happen before then?" asked Aaron Freitas. He was sitting on the far side of the room and it was even harder to hear him.

"Well, we've been worried sick for five months that something was going wrong," said Bonnie Mayer in a brittle voice. "She's been marching around like a zombie. But we didn't know what to say, or how to say it."

There was a short silence before Aaron Freitas said, "I see."

"You think we're fools, don't you," Jim Mayer said.

"It's a matter of professionalism not to form opinions of clients, Mr. Mayer," said Aaron Freitas. "Can you tell me what behaviors your daughter was exhibiting that made you worry?"

"Well, she just started to... Withdraw from life," said her father. "Friends would come over and she wouldn't come down to see them. Friends would come over invited and she wouldn't come down to see them. We started getting calls from the school that she wasn't turning in her homework, wasn't paying attention in class. Some of the teachers were angry. Others were concerned. Then we would find out that she hadn't attended at all—my wife would go upstairs and Danielle would still be asleep in bed. And when we tried to talk to her, it was like..." He shook his head, defeated. "In one ear and out the other. We just didn't know what to do."

"Her younger sister suggested electroshock," said her mother. "And the scary thing was, we really did consider it for a short time."

"I, umm..." said Danielle. "I don't remember any of this."

Everyone blinked at her for a moment.

"Do you have memories of the time passing?" said Aaron Freitas. "Is it a great blank spot in your mind, or are you aware that things happened, you just can't recall what they were?"

"More like the second, I think," said Danielle.

"So you were, as they say, checked out."

"Yeah."

"And this..." He pointed at her wrist. "Was more of the same?"

"Yeah, more or less," said Danielle.

Aaron Freitas looked over at her parents. "For the record, I don't think you're fools, Mr. and Mrs. Mayer. It can be hard when a child just... decides not to care. How do you approach them? What do you threaten them with, that they actually still value? And is it something you insist on, or something you let them work out for themselves? Sometimes there are no right answers in parenting, and this is one of those times.

"Now, Danielle, I'd like to get your side of the story. Was there a reason you felt the need to, as they say, check out?"

She wondered where he got that turn of phrase from. It wasn't as witty as he thought it was.

"It was easier than facing reality," she said.

"Oh? And what was it about reality that you didn't want to face?"

Danielle took a deep breath. "My... My boyfriend and I broke up." Put that way, it seemed a mean and paltry thing—to try and do herself in just because she wasn't dating anymore—and she felt a flash of shame.

"Was he important to you? This boyfriend?"

"He was everything to me," she said.

This earned her an odd look. She knew who Aaron Freitas thought was a fool now, and it sure wasn't her parents. "How long had you two been dating?"

"Well... I dunno, we didn't really start," she said. "It just happened. I guess, since we were... What, eight?" That had been the first time she had jokingly described him as her boyfriend... And, later, after hours, he had said that he wanted to be, and she had said he could be—without either of them really knowing, at the time, what it meant. They learned that later.

"I... See," said Aaron Freitas, still with that skepticism.

"No, I don't think you do," said Danielle, feeling her anger smolder under her. "David and I met in first grade, and by the end of that year we were inseparable. I have known since I was ten that I would marry him. We were each other's firsts; we both thought we'd be each other's only's. And I have loved him since the moment I met him."

"You mean you had a crush on him," said Aaron Freitas.

"No, I mean I loved him," said Danielle. She didn't say love, she noticed. The tense confusions weren't happening anymore. Was it because she had had her dream, and come to know that there was more than this?

"Ah, ha-ha," said Aaron Freitas. "Miss Mayer, love is a very complex and complicated emotion. Forgive me, but I can't help but wonder if a, ahh... A child is truly capable of it."

"Is that how you think of me?" said Danielle. "A child?"

"Well, you were certainly acting like one when you got yourself here," said Aaron Freitas.

"I thought your professional policy was to not form opinions of your clients," her mother snapped.

Danielle wasn't listening. "Mr. Freitas," she said. "Do children make decisions like this one? Do children look at their options and realize there are none? Can children see far enough ahead to feel like there is no hope for them? Suicide seems like an adult response to me."

"Perhaps it is, when taken with genuine objectivity," said Aaron Freitas, his voice becoming heated for the first time. "But in response to puppy love?"

At this point Danielle was so angry that she couldn't frame a meaningful response, and her splutters would be less than useful. Thankfully her parents were available. "Mr. Freitas, anyone who had seen David and Danielle together would not say that it was just puppy love," said her father. "They have been best friends for ten years, more than two-thirds of their life. That kind of long familiarity breeds an intimacy which is hard to mistake. At the very least, I wouldn't blame Danielle for despairing over the loss of that friendship. But they were in love, and—as she says—lovers as well. And anyone who saw them would know it. I would say that they were two halves of the same person, only that they weren't—they were a single person. David's parents felt the same. And I think anyone would feel grief over such a loss."

"Assuming there was anything to lose," said Aaron Freitas.

"You may not believe Danielle," said her father, his voice getting angry now, "but we were there, and I hope you believe what we saw."

"What you saw," said Aaron Freitas, "or what you think you saw?"

Danielle saw her father start to turn red and knew that this shrink had pushed him too far. Fortunately, her mother saw it too. "All right, that's enough. That's enough. We're done here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Freitas, but we have no more need of your services. It's clear you don't intend to help us address the actual issues, so why don't you just go on to your next case and we'll ask Dr. Herriges for a competent psychologist."

Aaron Freitas stood, his face angry. "You are a patient, Mrs. Mayer. You have no power to dismiss me. You cannot take me off this case."

"Watch me," Mom said.

The shrink's face twitched for a few moments. Then he left.

Her mother and father left too, after a few enjoyable minutes spent roundly abusing the moron psychologist; they promised to return that night, when they had the time. They also made her promise not to tell the replacement shrink anything until they showed up. But the replacement shrink came at about four in the afternoon, before they had arrived. They could not have been different: where Aaron Freitas slipped into the room like a furtive shadow, this man came in with a broad smile behind his wide glasses. He had sandy hair, greying a little at the temples; he was not very tall, but he carried himself with confidence.

"Ah," he said, "you must be the 'Miss Mayer' Freit's been making so much noise about. On behalf of the whole hospital, let me apologize for him. Dr. Herriges was furious when he heard. There are things Freit's good at, but love?..." He shook his head. "If we'd gotten the whole story Freit would've never had so much as a sniff of your case. But your folks were, well, flustered when you came in—understandably, of course. And obviously we haven't had much time to interview you as well. In any case, it was a mistake, and we're sorry, and we hope to undo the damage."

"Umm... Okay," said Danielle.

The new shrink crossed to her bed and shook her hand. "I'm Edward Stanton. Just call me Ned. Do you have any questions before we begin?"

"Umm, yes, actually," said Danielle. "How did I get here? —I mean... How was I discovered?" She'd only tried it after everyone was asleep; she hadn't planned to be found.

"Umm..." said Ned Stanton. He sat down in the chair her father had used—close to her, not across the room—put one leg up, pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger, and began rifling through her file. "Let's see here. Well, as I understand it, your sister found you."

Danielle felt a twitch in her neck. "Sonya?"

"It says here that she said she couldn't hear you breathing," said Ned. "She came over to investigate and... The rest was history."

My sister saved my life?? She wondered why Sonya hadn't just walked away and let her die. She'd've gotten my room, and probably all my stuff. Sonya could hear her breathing from across the hall?

"So," said Ned. "I've gotten some of the details from Freit, but his recollections were, umm... Biased, shall we say." He and Danielle laughed together. "So, if it's all right with you, I'd like to start over. Pretend he never came in the room. I'll go outside and walk in again if you want." It was similar to what the dream man had said—her husband—and she felt a pang of longing.

She'd had some time to think it over, and the explanation went a little more smoothly now. It still hurt, though, to think about David: the times they'd shared, the hopes they'd built, all the things she'd hoped to do and be with him. When she was done, Ned Stanton was shaking his head again. "Oh, Freit. No wonder he was so angry. Ever since his wife left him... Well, he has no faith in love anymore, let's just keep it at that. And as for you...

"Danielle, I hope you won't take any of this the wrong way, but what I hear from you is much the same as I've heard from many people. But most of them were quite a bit older than you. In some ways it's just a normal break-up story, but in others what I am hearing is the story of a divorce."

She thought about that for a moment. Was that really the right analogy? The end of a ten-year relationship? The end of a future, of all their dreams? The sorting-out of property? ...Okay, maybe it did sound like one.

"This stuff about your things and his especially," said Ned Stanton, as though reading her mind. "Thankfully, you didn't have to hire lawyers. Lawyers make their living on stuff like that. They get paid by the hour, so they want the negotiations to drag on as long as possible, and they feed their clients' vindictiveness to make it happen. In the end, the husband gets half, the wife gets half, and the lawyers get two halves each. Fastest way to poverty in this country is to get a divorce."

"You sound like you've done it," said Danielle.

"Nah," said Ned Stanton, shaking his head. "Thank God. My wife and I are happily married, and (unless something goes drastically wrong) we plan to stay that way. But we've seen it happen to too many of our clients."

"Like me," she said.

He gave a tilt of his head for an assent.

"Is that what you do?" she said. "Divorce stuff?"

"No, actually, primarily couples therapy, or marriage & family," he said. "My wife and I opened our practice together, and some couples like it to have someone in the room who can understand them no matter where they're coming from, or what gender they are. And I do this hospital stuff as a second job. But, well, divorce is just where it leads sometimes. You try and you fight for it and you give it your best, but sometimes... Your best isn't enough."

Danielle gave a sigh, and there was a bit of silence for a time.

"Anyway," said Ned Stanton. "We're here to work through your issues and try and figure out whether you constitute a repeat threat."

"What happens if I am?" she said.

"Well, we might choose to keep you here for another week or so," said Ned, "just to keep you under observation. And obviously it's recommended that you seek counseling no matter what. People don't just try to kill themselves for no reason, you know; there's something at work, though what that something is will vary from person to person. That's where we shrinks come in. We help you figure out what the issue is, and what steps you can take to fix it."

"You can figure that out?" she said. "About my life?"

"As in, how can this stranger claim to know anything about me," he said, smiling to show he wasn't offended. "Well, that's actually the thing, Miss Mayer. We don't figure anything out. You do. You tell us about your life, and we listen, and then together we talk about what it is you just said. It helps to talk things out, doesn't it?"

"So, you're saying..." said Danielle, still skeptical. "That I'm going to be paying you untold amounts of money per hour so that you can listen to me."

Ned gave a grin. "It's a pretty sweet deal from where I'm sitting."

"Why don't I just save my money and talk to a wall?" she said.

"Well, that's the question, isn't it," he said. "And believe me, we've had clients who probably could have figured themselves out if given enough time. But... Others couldn't've." He grinned again. "And the wall doesn't talk back. The wall doesn't answer, and sometimes answers are what you need. Sometimes all you need is to hear yourself, but sometimes you need someone else to. That's what we're here for."

"Still seems like a rip-off to me," she said.

"And, as I said, that's a completely valid opinion," he said. "For some people, it is unnecessary. But I guess it just comes down to... I guess it comes down to how much you value your happiness—or, at least, being happier than you are. As we've discovered from the divorce proceedings, people are willing to give up the larger majority of their worldly goods in order to achieve that happiness, or at least what they think of as 'happiness.' You, to achieve it, were ready to give up your life. Ask yourself honestly, Danielle: do you want to go on being that way?"

And that was really all that needed to be said.

"So... Would you like to tell me more about your mindset going into your attempt?" he said.

Danielle shrugged. "It... I don't even know. My folks can tell you more, because I was just... Checked out. They said I wasn't doing my homework, that I was ignoring my friends, that I was missing school, but... I don't remember a thing. I wasn't paying attention."

"Wasn't paying attention?"

"You know how, like, when you're bored in class or something, you just kind of... Zone out?"

"Like when my wife lectures me about leaving the toilet seat up," he said.

She had to give him a grudging laugh about that. "Well, that's what I did. Except it was since... Like, the first day of school."

"Five months of oblivion," he said. "That's a... Fair stretch."

"It isn't, like, memory loss or anything," she said, remembering what Aaron Freitas had said. "There aren't holes in my memory. I'm aware that things happened during that time, I just don't remember what they were. They didn't seem important to me."

Ned nodded.

"But... I think I know what set me off."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It... I got here early in the morning on the 24th, right? I think that's what Nurse Moss said." Ned consulted her chart and confirmed it. "Well... That probably means I did myself in—or tried to at least—on the night of the 23rd. ...Which happens to be David's birthday."

Ned was silent for a time.

"And..." She sighed, letting her mind drift. There were bits and pieces peeking out of that endless stretch of disorganized grey, like debris floating on a current. "He turned seventeen, and I remember that we... We had always talked about the things he would do, and what kind of cool party he would have. And so there he would've been... Having his birthday, having fun, doing all this cool stuff. And there I was, at home. Alone. No friends, no family, no invitation. Not..." She forced back tears with an effort. "Not a part of his life anymore."

"Not even a part of your own life anymore," said Ned.

At first that seemed outrageous, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. And not just because she had checked out, either. "Yeah. Yeah, because... Because without him, all my life was gone. He was my life. Everything was... There wasn't anything he wasn't a part of."

Ned was nodding. "Which is, again, where the divorce analogy comes in. When you're married, your lives become intertwined on... on a level it's hard to imagine if you haven't actually been. All the innocuous stuff—going to the bathroom, making the bed, shopping for groceries—none of it's the same anymore."

"And all of it's better," she said. "Because they're there."

Ned nodded.

"You know, around this time," Danielle said, "that other guy Freitas was starting to have steam coming out of his ears. He thought I was lying."

"Lying?" said Ned, sitting up.

"Well... Maybe not lying," said Danielle, "but... Misguided. He said it was just puppy love. He didn't think I really loved David. ...He didn't think someone my age actually can love."

"Mmm. I hate to admit it, but there may be a certain amount of truth to that," said Ned. "Love is a... Difficult emotion to handle. It often requires enormous sacrifices—and, I mean, seriously, if someone asked you to do something you thought was really stupid, would you do it? But that's what love is: it's placing another person above yourself, voluntarily; declaring them to be more important than you. And that can be hard, especially for someone your age, who is only just learning to have a self."

"I don't disagree with you," she said, "but, wouldn't that be true of anyone, at any age? Wouldn't it be hard to do no matter how old you were?"

"Yes, it would," said Ned, "which is why we so often have parents who aren't by any means fit to be parents. Which gets to the other side of it: just because it's unlikely doesn't mean it's impossible. Instead of judging, Freit should have kept an open mind and listened. And besides, love is a result of maturity, not age, and I'm sure you've started to notice already that maturity and age aren't always correlated. I'm sure you know many people who are grown up for their age, and others who just remind you of kids." He laughed. "I mean, come on: you're in high school."

"Ain't that the truth," she said.

"And also, Danielle: even if you didn't, you know, really truly love David—I think you did, by the way, but just for the sake of the argument, let's say you didn't. Let's say it really was just puppy love. Still... You lost someone who was... I mean, what? A friend? A lover? A brother? Closer? A self?"

She nodded.

"That's a hard loss to get over. Not only did you lose your best friend, and your lover, and your boyfriend, and your husband-to-be, and all the dreams and hopes and futures he represented... Not only did you lose all those things, but you lost the Danielle his presence allowed you to be. You did lose a self. Two selves, as a matter of fact: him, and the you he made you." Ned shook his head again. "And Freit... Well, he just doesn't see those things anymore."

"How'd he get to be a psychologist anyway?"

"Well, he was a good one, once," said Ned, "and he still has his flashes of brilliance. But his wife... He loved her to distraction, but she had other ideas. Mostly they involved her boss, but sometimes the CEO, sometimes her co-workers... Sometimes anyone she could get her hands on, it seemed like. Once the fourth-floor janitor, for heaven's sake. And since then he's just lived in constant pain. And I don't think he takes anybody else's pain seriously anymore. He's just so used to it that he forgets how hard it can be to deal with."

"Well, fair enough," said Danielle, "but it sure doesn't help me."

"Nope," said Ned, and there was another period of silence.

After a while she said, "I... Well, I mean, I know my own opinions are biased. But... I don't think I would try again."

Ned tilted her head. "Yes, they are. But who would know you better than yourself. Why don't you think you'd try to off yourself again?"

"I..." It had come while she was in the grey place, a hundred different things crystallizing in one realization. "Because I think I can live without him."

Ned said nothing.

"It was hard for a while. Maybe it still will be. But not hard enough that I can't handle. And in the meanwhile... Well, I can move on, can't I? Today I've talked more about him than I have since we broke up, and... I can talk about him. The old me is dead, and I don't know what new me will come up in her place, but I know there can be a new me. I know I can move on."

"Can you?" he said.

"Well... I have moved on. Haven't I? Or how would I be able to talk about him without flinching?"

Ned Stanton smiled, and she had a feeling she had passed a test. And yet none of it was lies. She could talk about him and look back on what they had once had without that overwhelming feeling of loss; she could picture a future. It was grey and murky, but it did exist. And, seriously, what would David have wanted? Not this. There isn't much I'm sure of, but that's one of them.

"It will be hard," Ned said softly. "It's one of the things you don't learn until you've had a serious break-up, but... When you love someone—when you really, truly love someone—you don't stop. Ever. Sure, it won't be the same strength as before, and you won't be as willing to do really stupid things for them anymore. But you'll still be more willing to do stupid things for them than for other people. Once that connection is made, it doesn't close."

"And he feels the same about me," she said.

"I'm sure of it," Ned said.

"Why, is he one of your clients or something?" said Danielle. "David Glass. Is he?"

"If he was, I actually wouldn't be allowed to tell you due to patient confidentiality standards," Ned said. "But, since he isn't, I'm at perfect liberty to tell you that he isn't."

Danielle laughed. "That's backwards, isn't it?"

"Hey, I didn't design the rules!" Ned protested. "But, no, he isn't. And not my wife's client either. Though we wouldn't normally accept a single teenage male for a client any case; there's better people than us to deal with him."

"So, if they released me, you wouldn't take me on?" Danielle said.

"Well..." said Ned. "We do make exceptions occasionally." He smiled.

Danielle smiled back. The muscles felt rusty, though they were getting a workout today. "That's... That's another thing that's changed," she said. "I smile again. I laugh again. I wasn't doing that for... A long time."

"Laughing is good," said Ned, "laughing is progress."

When her parents arrived again, he took them out in the hall for a time. And the next morning, Danielle went home.

She came back to school on a Friday, to a school shrouded in rain and cloud. Though it might have been easier to wait until the next week, she insisted; "I've spent too much time out of my life already," she told her parents, "I'm not going to waste a moment," and they didn't disagree. And yet when she arrived she felt as though she had never been here before, and yet so many things were familiar to her: the rooms, the buildings, the faces she saw.

She saw Amy Plisken and Liana French shooting her surreptitious looks; the principal explained that she had not been seen in school since late November. She had certainly not signed up for this semester's classes—nor, for that matter, passed last semester's—and they had to shoehorn her into whatever slots were available. Her parents were there to vouch for her, and the principal was largely sympathetic, but she could see that he was reserving judgment. Let him. She was who she was; a principal's skepticism would not deter her.

By recess, the rumors were already flying that Danielle had had a nervous breakdown and been consigned to the wacko ward of some faraway hospital, and had only been let out now that the lobotomy had been successful. Since Danielle had not told the truth to anyone but the principal, she could only surmise that Shelly Baumgarter must be inventing some stories. Nobody asked Danielle anything, of course. Danielle decided not to let it bother her. She had stared down a dark well and lived to tell about it; things were different to her. Never before had she realized just how immature that crowd was. Once it had been important to her, but today it seemed so... Childish to worry about whether you were putting people down or being perceived as the coolest person in the school.

When she found Liz, her friend's eyes fell open. Liz stood up (cutting Carmen off mid-sentence), strode to Danielle and slapped her mightily across the face. Barely had Danielle had time to rock back from the blow that Liz had yanked her into an enormous hug. A little confused, Danielle put her arms around her.

"You," Liz whispered, "are the worst friend ever."

It took her the rest of lunch to explain what had happened. She didn't explain about the suicide attempt, and she knew Liz noticed the gap in her story, but she caught her friend's eye and knew Liz knew to call her for the details. The others were easy to fool; she just kept talking, and they ate it up. To them, Danielle was some sort of magical, mystical creature, a refugee from another world: a girl who'd had a boyfriend, a girl who'd actually done it, a girl who could just stop going to school one day and decide to come back on another, and get away with it. No matter how much she tried to tell them that no, it wasn't like that, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounded, they wouldn't listen, and Danielle eventually gave up entirely. Besides, it was nice to be thought of as cool. It wasn't anything she could claim happened to her with any frequency.

In between, Liz told her side of the story: watching in concern as Danielle seemed to just... fade away. "We didn't know what to do at all. I mean, anyone could tell that you had just... That you just didn't care anymore. It was like you were dead. You were moving and eating and talking, but we'd look at your face and there was nothing behind your eyes." Liz had come to her house, sometimes alone and sometimes with reinforcements, to try doing what she could, but Danielle had never responded. Eventually, sick at heart, she had given up.

Danielle didn't blame her, and didn't hold it against her. "You are my best friend," she told her over the phone, later that night. "You are my best friend. You didn't give up on me even after I gave up on myself. You were always my friend forever; now I am forever in your debt."

Only Sonya seemed unimpressed by her return from the dead. Only Sonya, who greeted her with an impassive, "Oh, you're home," and disappeared up into her room. Only Sonya, who said nothing about her long absence, but simply went on as though nothing had changed.

But Danielle didn't comment. Let Sonya be skeptical; she would not be the only one. Danielle was who she was. Let the others like her or dislike her as they pleased. She had more important things to do.

She had a future to build towards.

On Tuesday the next week, as she was starting to gouge away at the tremendous amount of catch-up work she'd been assigned, her cellphone began to trill. When she picked it up, it was David's number.

After a moment's thought, she hit the Ignore button.