Towering

had been a day of great excitement, easily the most exciting day of my life. I had rescued someone! I had met a boy, a real boy who liked me, who thought me pretty. I had kissed him. For some girls, this might be the stuff of an ordinary afternoon. For me, it was incredible.
    My arm throbbed. I pulled up my sleeve and examined it. I found a scrape, forgotten. I remembered how it had happened, climbing up the tower wall. I touched the scrape with some satisfaction. A cold breeze blew in through the window. Wyatt was out of my sight. I pulled up the rope and coiled it round and round itself until it was small enough to store under my bed.
    I yawned. It had been a tiring day, and though I knew that Mama would be here later, I decided to take a nap.
    I crawled under the covers, taking my pillow into my arms. It was merely a pillow but I had, many times, imagined it was my true love. Now, he had a name. Wyatt.
    Wyatt.
    I felt like I could smell him in the air as I drifted off to sleep.
    But I did not dream of him as I would have liked. Instead, I dreamed of people, people I had never seen, their faces pleading with me to save them, save them somehow from themselves. But I didn’t know how. Sliding down a rope and rescuing someone from the ice seemed like child’s play compared to what they wanted from me. In fact, I did not know what they wanted at all. But they seemed to think I did, and they grew closer, their hands reaching toward me, touching me.
    I woke, sobbing, to someone shaking me. The room was dark.
    “Who’s there?” I asked.
    A laugh. Then, a gentle voice, soothing. “Who would be there, Kitten? It is only me.”
    Mama. How many hours had passed since Wyatt had held me, since I’d been that different, not helpless, girl he’d held in his arms.
    “Mama, you’re here.”
    “Of course.” She stroked my hair. “But why is it dark?”
    I wiped my teary eyes with my arm. “I was tired. Maybe still a little touch of fever.”
    “Oh, I am sorry.” She reached for the light switch. “I had hoped you would be better.”
    The room illuminated, and she looked around. I imagined she could see that everything had changed since she had been there last. Indeed, her eyes showed suspicion. But there was no difference.
    My sleeve felt wet where I had been crying. I pushed my sleeve up, then remembered the scrape on my arm. If she saw it, she was sure to ask how I got it. I pulled my sleeve down, the better to cover it. But it did not hurt anymore, and when I looked, it wasn’t there. Had it been my imagination?
    The eagle eyes traveled the room. “Is everything else . . . all right?”
    I nodded. “Only I am lonely. I get so lonely, Mama, all by myself.”

Wyatt
    I was about halfway back to Mrs. Greenwood’s house when it hit me. There was a girl in a tower out in the middle of nowhere, trapped. No one but me knew she was there. How was I sure she wasn’t a figment of my imagination? Maybe it was all a dream, born of my own loneliness, my need to be a hero to make up for everything that had happened. Maybe I’d crashed through the ice and pulled myself out.
    Maybe I was lying on the ground, dying of hypothermia, and the girl was merely a vision.
    A beautiful vision. I remembered her blond hair, her lacy dress, her skin, a shade of white I had never seen before, almost transparent. Was it because she had never seen sun, or was she an angel?
    And how was it, if she was real, she’d been looking out her window at the exact moment I’d fallen through the ice? Was it because she was so lonely she looked out her window all the time, seeing nothing? I knew what it was to be lonely, but she had been alone far longer.
    I pulled in to Mrs. Greenwood’s driveway, got out of the car, and started toward the house. Then, I remembered the hinges. I decided to tell Mrs. Greenwood I hadn’t been able to get them, that I needed to go back tomorrow.
    Because, of course, another possibility had occurred to me, that Rachel was Mrs. Greenwood’s granddaughter, that somehow, Danielle had had a baby, then disappeared. Maybe she was so scared of her mother she hadn’t told her. How cool would it be to reunite them?
    I looked for the hinges on the seat, then realized they were in my pocket. When I drew them out, I saw, attached to the bag, a long, golden hair.
    She was real.
    But I couldn’t tell anyone, least of all Mrs. Greenwood, about Rachel, not until I was sure who she was. I needed to find out.
    Besides, even