Some Quiet Place

thought—”
    Oh. The assigned partners. “It’s fine,” I say to Joshua, cutting his anxious tirade short. “I’m sorry; I was thinking about something.”
    “Oh yeah?” Joshua raises his brows at me. “Care to share?”
    “People, people, find your seats and zip your lips, please. Get your pencils and notebooks out and prepare yourselves—lots of notes today. Your wrists are going to love you by the time we get out!” Collective groans as Mr. Anderson strides to his desk followed by the bouncy figure of Excitement, a female Emotion with spiky hair and a slight frame. Mr. Anderson really does love teaching us. Joshua grins at me, shrugging, and goes back to his own desk.
    Sophia is gone for once, and I know that if I had the ability, I would be grateful. I settle on the hard desk seat and put the whole of my concentration into taking notes.
    Joshua tries not to look at me for the rest of the class period, yet the boy can’t help glancing back at me under his lashes. I can practically hear the thoughts buzzing around the inside of his busy brain. It serves to be a little distracting.
    But not nearly as distracting as my own thoughts.
    Two days pass without event. Dad keeps me busy on the farm, and he’s pleased with the progress we’ve made on the harvest. His good mood affects Mom; she treats me less as a frightening stranger at supper and more like a distant relative coming to stay for a while. “Pass the peas, please, Elizabeth?” she asks politely.
    Charles, of course, pretends everything is good and happy. He has a new plan to get out of Edson: drag racing. He’s bought an old run-down car from the junkyard. Old Tom gave him a deal. Every night while I paint, Charles is in the garage, tinkering away at the thing. He’s also been going to a small track in Chippewa Falls. “To check out the competition,” he tells me. “I think once I get my baby all fixed up, I can take ’em.” I agree, because it’s what he wants.
    By Thursday, my bruises are faded enough to be covered by makeup. The result is adequate, and I make arrangements to see Maggie. It’s been too long since my last visit—over two weeks—and I feel the insistent nudge to maintain appearances. Charles agrees to cover the milking and make an excuse if Dad notices I’m gone.
    After school I get into my truck with my plan in place. The parking lot thrives with the sound of engines coming to life and kids shouting “Bye!”and “See you tomorrow!” Just as I jam the keys into the ignition, though, something caught in the windshield wiper catches my eye. I open the door and pull the object free. A piece of paper. Blue ink. There’s the curve of a Y visible. I smooth it out against the steering wheel to read the rest.
    ARE YOU HER?
    The handwriting is neat, elegant curves and loops. Frowning in thought, I hold it to my nose and inhale. The smell of something fresh, dark, and cold clings to the paper. Odd. It’s either a prank or something else, and I have no idea what that could be. Best to dwell on it later. Pocketing the piece of paper, I start the engine and head to Eau Claire, about a forty-minute drive.
    The trip offers the same scenery: the rolling hills of Wisconsin all around. The minutes and miles pass by in a blur. I find myself thinking yet again about the dreams.
    Finally the silver arches of the hospital appear on my left, a huge building jutting up in front of the horizon. I find a parking space, reading the words over the doorway: Sacred Heart Hospital . The staff here knows me well. The curly haired nurse at the front desk nods at me when I walk through the automatic doors and I go to the elevator, pressing 9 for Maggie’s floor. The button glows red. A small ding sounds each time it goes up a floor and I focus all my attention on that sound, mentally preparing myself for the visit. My expressions, my reactions, my voice and gestures—all smoothed into the caring, concerned friend.
    Maggie is asleep when I walk through the door, the tiles squeaking beneath my shoes. I stop, standing in a shaft of sunlight that slips in through the window. Her parents aren’t here, and I don’t know how long she’ll sleep. Every second that passes is a second that Tim will notice my absence, so I move to leave again.
    “You aren’t even going to leave a note?” she whispers. I turn around and watch her eyes flutter open. She’s weakened considerably since the last time I saw her. Her face is almost as pale as the