As I run, the sepia photograph comes to mind. The clothes the patients wore—the white shirt and black pants—are what Will always wears. He doesn’t dress like anyone else I know. When he asked me what a phone was, I thought he was kidding. I’ve never had class with him, and I’ve never seen him interact with anyone else. He never actually told me he was Will Poynter. I just assumed so when I heard others talking about him.744Please respect copyright.PENANAajsCGGn0NM
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The truth is, maybe something always felt a little off. Maybe I just ignored it because he matters too much to me.744Please respect copyright.PENANAQevWMIrxuJ
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I throw my weight against the heavy ash doors. The air is misty, fresh and smelling of earth. He isn’t by the ponds. I even check between the reeds, as though he could be hiding there and waiting for me. My shoes stick in the mud. Marsh water splashes onto my ankles.744Please respect copyright.PENANAE8MGCxDUb5
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“Will!” I cry, knowing how crazy it makes me look but not caring. “Will!”744Please respect copyright.PENANA8ATvIkCFdn
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Will’s a patient in a psychiatric hospital in the 1920s. This means he’s either a lunatic or a psychic. It also means I’ve been talking to my very own ghost. Is it possible, though, that he could have held my hand and touched my hair? I remember Jen’s neck with its hand-shaped bruise.744Please respect copyright.PENANAUZnwhO07va
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“Will!” I yell again, reaching the crabapple tree. A trio of younger students passing underneath shoots me strange glances.744Please respect copyright.PENANAJzfrmCBzMo
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I can’t bring myself to care if he’s a lunatic or a psychic. He’s still Will, and that’s all that matters to me right now. That’s when I remember the camellias, and I take off, trying not to notice the sun getting lower in the sky.744Please respect copyright.PENANAFNQBMTBu2K