Chapter 4
I search the area for whatever might have scared him. Maybe moving trees. Or Murray.
But there’s nothing. Just the thick summer air and the sound of his heavy breaths against my chest. His tears soak through my shirt as he lets out a full-body tremor like he might shake apart.
The last time I saw someone full on sob like this was Whitley at her grandma’s funeral. But this is something else entirely. It’s panic, grief, exhaustion, something five times heavier. He’s about to hyperventilate in my arms.
I grab his shoulders and push him back just enough to see his face.
“Hey.” I lift his chin with two fingers. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? What happened?”
He looks at me through tears, innocently searching my face as if I hold an answer he’s been looking for forever. Snot trickles from his nose down and across his lips. He doesn’t even wipe it away.
“You . . . can . . . see . . . me.” He struggles to say each word, his voice wrecked.
I force a steady breath, keeping my expression neutral, careful not to let my confusion slip through and risk offending him in his unraveling state.
“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “But I don’t understand.”
His breathing is quick, uneven. With a shaky hand, he reaches up and grazes my cheek.
My muscles tense even though his touch is nothing like bark—it’s softer, hesitant.
His palm continues to drift up, threading through the waves of my hair.
My pulse stutters. His other hand begins to trail down my forearm, then he picks at my arms like I’m a dandelion waiting to be wished upon.
I gasp, jerking away. “What the hell are you doing?” My voice cracks as I shove him back. “I don’t even know you. You’re freaking me out, dude.”
“Wait!” he pleads. “Don’t go. Please.” He reaches for me.
I snatch my pool inspection kit off the ground and power walk to my truck.
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re not answering my questions.”
“No one has been able to see me,” he states, as if it’s a totally normal thing to say. “I’m surprised you can, is all.”
I freeze, halfway to my truck. “Like, see you in public?” I frown, glancing around at the abandoned swim club. “Are you on house arrest here or something? Is this even a public pool?”
He shakes his head. “No one has been able to see my body.” He taps his stomach. “Like I’m invisible . . . or a . . . ghost.” His voice drops to a whisper. “No one has been able to see me for nearly ten years.”
We lock eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow as he waits for my response. Thoughts swirl in my head, but my mouth hangs open, useless. I’m like a fish yanked from the Penango River, gasping, floundering, and silent.
My body reacts before my brain can. I hurl my kit through my truck’s open window and dive inside after it.
A second hallucination in two days? Maybe Murray did kill me after all.
I need this to stop.
The ground is still. I slap my cheek, testing reality—the pain is real too. My phone sits on the dash and the screen lights up with the title of my last played podcast: “Is Reality Real?”
Whatever their verdict is, I need to hear it because I’m asking myself the same damn question.
The engine roars to life just as the boy stumbles forward, his eyes wide with panic.
“Will you come back?” he yells. “I’m Xander. Please come back!”
I grip the steering wheel, unable to look at him. “I have to go!” I shout through the window. “I’m sorry! But I have to go.” My voice cracks unexpectedly.
“Wait!” He lunges after me, hands outstretched, clawing at the air like he’s drowning. My tires kick up dust as I reverse down the drive. The boy follows, chasing me through the haze.
Then a loose branch trips him. He tumbles into the mud. I expect him to get up and keep running, but he doesn’t. He convulses on the ground, sobbing as I disappear around the bend.
I flip on the radio, letting the familiar DJ’s voice ground me in something normal. Then I grab my phone and scroll through old texts—proof of things that I know happened, proof that I haven’t lost my grip on reality.
But my mind keeps circling back to Xander. A cry catches in my throat.
First the tree, now this boy. What’s next?
Whatever these visions are, I take them as a sign. Leaving Penango isn’t just something I want—it’s something I have to do.