I've never given much thought to the inside of a tomb –you know the tomb raiders' kind with creepy statues and wispy cobwebs hanging around every corner. Right now, it seems I'm in a tomb.

            Charlotte sent me to journey in a narrow passageway, a crypt really –three stories underground and befallen by utter darkness. It's much less maintained than the hallway beneath the washroom. First I find out she's flirting with the fine line between insane and crazy and now this.

            Twenty minutes after being ordered out of Charlotte's secret lair, I'm still crawling along in this damp corridor. The smell has gotten better, less putrid than before, and there are fewer cobwebs. So things are looking up.

            The eerie darkness progresses to an almost full light as I round the last cyclical curvature of the passageway, clinging to the earthy wall for guidance. With light up ahead, I must be close to the end.

            The sloping path levels out, dumping me into a flat rectangular room. It's dark and dusty, but more orderly than the hallway. I examine the floor –a neatly paved cobblestone replica of the town square. My eyes follow the whimsical pattern to the corner of the room where a smooth ladder is propped against the wall.

            I walk closer to the ladder and look up. It takes me a minute to place where I am, but then it hits me. At the top of the ladder, an open gap in the ceiling (or the upstairs' floor) is plugged with the underside of a hay bale.

            I push the hay bale out of the way and crawl through the trap door. I'm standing in the back of our barn –behind a pile of hay and pellets.

            I turn back and stare at the now perfectly concealed gap in the ground, bemused that I never discovered it before.

            What was the truth? Charlotte told me she would explain; however, now I'm unsure if I want to allow her the chance. And William too! All this time he was delivering psych evaluations on me.

            As I trek through the snow up to the house, my mind is focused on the picture of us taken after the Berry Ball. William may have been in on the testimonials, but surely he couldn't have orchestrated the picture taking.

            I tear off my wet boots and drop them on the deck. The house is warm and cozy just like always, but hauntingly quiet. A roaring fire flickers in the grate. A faint smoky smell disperses as I walk into the room.

            I walk discreetly through the den. Luckily, no one unearths me; Nicolas and William must still be out and Charlotte is nowhere to be seen. I reach the stairs and climb my way to the top and stalk to my room –where no one can interrupt my peace and quiet.

            "I was wondering how long it would take you," Charlotte says, sitting down on the edge of my bed.

            "Well, it was a treacherous tunnel. Thanks for warning me," I snap.

            She stares back.

            "I meant how long it would take you to discover what lies beneath the Refinery," she answers.

            "Right," I scoff. "How did you beat me back here, anyway? The tunnel leads right to the barn," I eye her suspiciously.

            "The tunnel is direct, but with an undulating pattern I'm afraid. I've found traveling above ground is much more timely." Charlotte nods matter-of-factly.

            "And I needed to travel unseen, why? People watch me walk home every day from the Refinery." I argue.

            "Of course they do, Evelyn," she agrees. "But today was different. If any of the nurses –or anyone for that matter saw you leaving that room, there would have been drastic and dire consequences for the both of us, considering your visit was unsanctioned."

            I mull this over and for a minute consider walking away. She's so elusive; I have no idea what she's trying to say. Consequences from whom?

            What is it about the room that is so overwhelmingly dangerous? What is it about the room that has Charlotte so on edge? I make toward my bed and sit two feet away from Charlotte, staring her directly in the eyes.

            "Why? What is the big deal?" A foreign and slightly unsettling tone escapes from my lips. "Are you going to tell me anything? The way I see it, you are running the joint and I deserve more than my fair share of answers!"

            "That is fair," Charlotte agrees. "I suppose I will start with the fundamentals."

            Folding my arms across my chest, I lean back against the headboard and wait for her explanation.

            "The room you found is called the Bridge. It's sort of an operating room, if you will," Charlotte begins.

            "There is a room like this in each of the Five Lands regions. They were supposed built adjacent to portals, back in the Dark Age when there were multiple portals in this land. Even in Kemper, this room is rumored to exist.

"Everyone has heard about it –about a clandestine room hidden underground, but no one actually knows anything about it. It's nothing more than speculation and hearsay –all tall tales about secret centers that gather Intel and monitor refugees."

            "Well, it's much more than a rumor, isn't it? So congratulations to them, they've all guessed it," I spit.

            "Well, yes. However, the truth is no one actually knows for sure that it is real. Apart from me, and now you. They don't know anything about it. No one is allowed in, not that anyone would know where to look for the Bridge anyway." Charlotte breathes.

            "Because it's hidden!"

            "That, yes, and because only the appointed know it exists. One person is appointed to run it at a time. This person acts as a liaison for the town... the whole region for that matter. No one ever knows who it is; not even the recruit knows his or her predecessor. We are assigned an identification number. The Bridge is referred to as Number 5." She bites her lip.

            My perplexity intensifies. Once again, I'm lost as to what she's saying, but after all I have grown accustomed to this.

            "Go on." I urge her to continue.

            "It's been around for years, perhaps even since the Destruction, at least according to our land's legend. Each of the five stations is manned by a sole appointed servant. Once a replacement is chosen –if you are chosen –you aren't left with much of a choice. You accept the task. The alternative is far less pleasant," she explains.

            "Less pleasant than spying on your friends and family? Spying on everyone you know?" I accuse.

            "I got my notification last year," she shrugs. "I received a full set of instructions with detailed information on operating the Bridge. I received no other explanation or contacts. I do not even know who held the torch before.

"That's really all there is to it. No one knows it's me and no one can ever know or things... things may be compromised. Nicolas doesn't even know," she adds.

            I detect shame in her last few words and feel a slight twinge of pity surge through me. I ease up my anger marginally.

            "So what exactly do you do?" I ask her, reticent.

            "Mostly I monitor the portal's activity –energy output patterns, cycles, that sort of thing –trying to detect patterns. Every now and then, a refugee is tagged. I collect pictures, information, and routines – everything you can think." Charlotte stops.

            The question 'Why me?' seems silly to ask when I already know the answer. I was tagged. Flagged. My cubbyhole was loaded with information, more so than the others.

            "Why was I tagged?"

            "I haven't pieced the whole puzzle together yet, but I reckon it's something to do with that suspicious figure that's made a habit of stalking you," she says.

            "Oh."

The truth is before I saw the photograph of the shadow, part of me believed it was in my head. Now I have proof it exists.

            "I don't know who or what it is, so don't ask." She looks determined. My spirits drop.

            "You don't?" I deflate.

            She shakes her head.

            "So what do they want with all this information?" I demand.

             "As far as I know they don't do anything with it. It's almost like they're waiting, waiting for something specific. I've never seen anything result from what I do," she finishes.

            "And who exactly are they? Government?" I raise my eyebrow.

            "There is no one president or minister governing the Five Lands, Evelyn. You know this. Strict precautions were implemented to make sure of that." Charlotte reminds me.

            "But someone somewhere must be calling all the shots," I say.

            "It's got to be the ones running the Archive of Ages," she states.

            "Sorry. The Archives of what?"

            "The Archive of Ages. It's where the C.R.I.S. is headquartered. It's the only place that even remotely makes sense," Charlotte exhales.

            "Why would it make sense?" I raise my eyebrow.

            "Well, the Archive of Ages is a vast hall that houses all the records leftover from previous eras –histories, accounts, maps –you name it –all detailing the last 500 years. If it survived the Destruction, you can find it at the Archives.  If there is anything going on then the Archives will know about it. Plus, the conspiracy posits another site lies beneath the Archives."

            "The conspiracy? What?" I practically jump from the bed.

            Charlotte shifts backwards. "I get orders from a place called the Axis. It is annotated 0 of 5. I assume the Axis is the room beneath the Archives. It makes sense."

            "You assume," I repeat. "So you mean to tell me, you've been keeping tabs on us, trailing us, and keeping bits and pieces of our clothing, but you have no idea whose orders you're following?"

            "That would be correct. What do you want me to tell you?" Charlotte pleads.

            "Tell me anything –everything!"

            "That's just it, I don't have all the answers! I didn't ask to be selected for this. I haven't been able to tell anyone for the past year! Everyone just sits and wonders while I'm the one being fed orders."

            Her words are plagued with defeat, hopeless. Briefly, I wonder why she was chosen, or who even chose her to begin with. I suppose the operator needs to be an ordinary and inconspicuous townsperson that no one would ever suspect.

            "Why can't you just leave? Stop doing what you're told and just walk away." I inquire.

            "That's not allowed. There are some things you cannot walk away from." She tugs at the frayed edges of her skirt. "You have forgotten how powerful fear can be. If you cannot escape something, at least face it head on."

            "I don't understand."

            "I wanted to get inside. To believe I had a shot anyway. And then you resurfaced and everything changed. If there is even the slightest chance I can unravel the Bridge, I am willing to risk it," she proclaims.

            I remember her saying something about consequences if anyone found out.

            "Hang on. Why would it be so dire if anyone found out?" I backpedal.

            She thinks about it for another minute then parts her lips.

            "All the speculation about the Bridge is just that –speculation –hearsay. There are rebels everywhere, consumed by hatred and fear, all obsessed and delusional. There's no reasoning with them!" she blurts out, her cheeks reddening.

            I think of Shaw and the manic expression he wore at the Berry Ball.

"The cults make derogatory claims against the infrastructure –against the wash-ups –against the government –and even against the C.R.I.S. If anyone heard my name associated with the Bridge, even a mere whisper, I would be in danger."

"Or be hailed a hero," I scoff.

"Evelyn," she sighs.

            "I'm sorry," slips from my lips. A wave of remorse swells inside.

            "Nonsense," Charlotte stifles me. "It's not your shortcoming, Evelyn. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered it. To be honest, I am relieved someone finally knows the truth. I am relieved it's you."

            "So the Archives," I begin, trying to stay on topic. "You said there is a center there too? What kinds of records are they keeping do you suppose?"

            "Records of... everything." Charlotte shrugs. "Everything since the beginning of all this –since the end of the old world, since the Destruction. Records of the Dark Age, of the schism Overseas, the Cord Wars, the Resolution of the Cord Wars..."

            I soak everything in like a porous sponge thirsty for more. I don't want to push my luck and I'm not sure my brain can process much more. Still, the questions remain. What were these 'Cord Wars' and what great disaster happened Overseas that's got everyone all scared to mention it?

            "I won't say anything, you know," I attest, patting Charlotte firmly on the shoulder.

            "I know," she sighs with an almost pitying look. "No one would believe you if you did."

/  /  /

The last week of January has arrived and the snow continues to stick in Kemper. Abrasive winds and sub-zero temperatures make it almost impossible to be outside.

            The greedy snow has devoured our stable house, which is now a malformed icebox. Ice crystals have overtaken the haystacks, welding them to the trap door concealed beneath. Momentarily, I wonder how Charlotte will continue to escape unseen, but then I remember I don't care. We have a sort of bond now, a secret understanding between just the two of us.

            In the interest of preserving what little sanity I have left and to stop from feeding my obsession, I decided not to concern myself with the trap door or the even more conspicuous room to which it leads.

            Even after it stole its way into my nightmares and skulked through my subconscious, I refused to pay a thought to it. I saddle up Ora and usher her into the chilly morning.

            Part of me, a small and dim-witted part, decided it a wise idea to visit the Cliffs. The sea breeze is familiar but bitter. Knolls of snow cover almost three-quarters of the lighthouse ruins, allowing no room inside for refuge.

            It seemed a smart move, though as I think of the warm fire back in the cabin, I soon regret the decision.

            My final check-up is next week and a part of me –the same dim-witted part –is on edge. I have no idea why anyone would suspect my behavior has changed. Considering how arduously I've been pushing myself to keep it all under wraps, I would be displeased if I slipped up now.

            Keep it up. I encourage myself.

            Unfortunately, it's becoming harder to evade questioning. If people only knew the epic enormity of the constant internal struggle that I face daily, let's just say I would not be passing any more check-ups.

            What's even worse –my re-Evaluation date has been set for the 8th of February. Recently, my wits have been entertaining the possibility of failure.

            If I fail my re-Evaluation I am prohibited from traveling, subject to another year of daily check-ups, and my citizenship is temporarily suspended, and in the worst-case scenario –I am classified a refusal.

            For my sake, I've garnered my nightmares, daydreams, and flashbacks into a single idea and broken it down into three categories: the who, the what, and the when.

Who is who I was, who surrounds me, who I have left, and who I now am or will be. What is what is happening or going on, what could possibly be the explanation of all this and or what it means. When is the most perplexing of the three and the one in which I can never truly know.

            Everyone, Charlotte and William included, would have me believe I am in the future –a land reborn in an alternate –simultaneously existing era that connects all of time through a single portal –a portal that chooses and acts upon its own free will nonetheless.

            If all of this is true then the portal may be my ticket home. Since people here claim that the portal connects time, there has got to be a way to intercept its powers and transport myself back to 2015.

Snowflakes plummet to the ground, crystallizing Ora's reigns and my leather jacket. An ornate fleck clings to the fingertip of my glove. I tilt my head back and stick out my tongue, catching the flurries like I did as a child.

            The sky above is a swirling sea of grey and white. I stare forlornly at the horizon, remembering my childhood days at the beach filled with suntan lotion, rainbow umbrellas, and hordes of kids waiting in line at the Snow Cone Shack.

            I long for the over-crowded ocean and piping hot sand dunes. I ache for the lengthy car rides and weekend trips. I even miss the trash-ridden boardwalks with rickety wooden roller coaster and the red and white carousel that Leah and I rode as children.

            It's empty here. Desolate. I am barren and hollow and convinced the only way to repair my life is to go back.

            It's decided.

            I'm going back to the Bridge and I'm going to piece everything together. Kemper didn't choose me and it sure does not get to keep me here either.

Tria jumps on my case as soon as I duck under the curtains and enter the Refinery –complaining that I'm late and she was left to fend off Adara in my defense.

            "I'm sorry, Tria," I grumble. "You've seen it outside. It took Ora ten minutes just to leave our property!"

            "Well then next time I suggest leaving sooner!" She hisses back, handing me a clipboard.

            "I'll take it into consideration." I snatch the notes from her hand.

            "Humph." She saunters back to the cubicle.

            I know she's only doing her job. She's so overly helpful when it comes to work, but she can be unwaveringly bossy sometimes. As of recently, her and Charlotte are tied for the Over-Bearer of the Year Award.

            "What was that?" I turn to find Adara peering at me from behind Cole's privacy curtain. She's wearing a thick black peacoat and denim pants. I'm not used to seeing her out of her nurse skirt.

            "Nothing you need to worry about." Bitterness drips from my words.

            She shoots me a haughty look before drawing the drape around the bed. As she looked up, I could swear I saw a flicker of compassion and concern in her eyes.

            My mind is preoccupied with the developing plan. Anna and Chase are both asleep when I reach their beds. The check sheet hanging at the foot of Chase's bed indicates that his Evaluation has finally been set for the 8th of February –the same day as my re-Evaluation.

            This town. I cringe at the thought and wring the parchment in my hand. For months, I've been playing their games. The festivals, the ball –it's all been one huge scheme. Now, I'm playing nurse. I'm helping them.

            I don't buy into the whole fate-destiny charade. This was never meant to happen. An accident brought me here and that's just what it was –an accident.

            The Refinery is different now –now that I know what lies beneath the floorboards. I slouch against the wall and hold my legs in my hands.

            Another nurse, one I don't recognize, whispers something and nods disapprovingly.

            "I told you Chase needs his last round of medicine. He's staying here until his Evaluation. No sense discharging him for such a short time," Adara says, appearing above me with her usual reproachful look.

            I look up and nod.

            "Now." She stalks off.

            I drag my feet down the aisle. I grab a liquid painkiller from the supply cabinet and a syringe from the tool kit. I turn the tiny vial over in my hands as I walk to Chase's bed.

            I look down at my hands and realize that Tria is not the only one I envy. I am jealous of Chase because he gets to have this. I fill the syringe with the clear liquid. I want this. Maybe the memories will stop. Maybe the nightmares too...

            "Are you contemplating the best way to steal some?" Chase eyes me, suspicious.

            "What? No," I say defensively, but smile and shrug. "So what if I am?"

            "I wouldn't tell if you did." Chase laughs. "We could all use a little more. And you do need to loosen up."

            "In that case, I'll just keep this and... add it to my collection." I roll the syringe between my thumb and pointer finger. "You don't need it anyway, right?"

            "Very funny," he says. I could almost swear he was stifling a laugh.

            "You know, you'll be discharged soon and then you won't have an endless supply of drugs at your fingertips," I laugh. "What are you going to do then?"

            "That is quite the dilemma." He pretends to be thinking. "I guess I could always just lie about wanting to work here." He smirks. "Would give me ultimate access."

            "No one would ever believe you as a nurse," I say.

            "That's funny, I was thinking the same about you," he laughs.

            "Good one. Roll over," I say.

            "Which side today?"

            "Doesn't matter to me," I say, wiping the needle with a sterilization pad.

            "How soon?" He asks.

            "What?"

            "You said I would be discharged soon. You mean after my Evaluation?" Chase asks me.

            "Yes. That's right." I wipe the needle again. This is overkill.

            "Is it easy? The Evaluation hearing, I mean. Should I be worried?"

            His eyes search mine for the answers he desperately seeks.

            "No," I say.

            "No, it's not easy. Or no, I shouldn't be worried?" He asks.

            "Both," I smirk. "But you shouldn't be that worried. The board members will talk a lot, but it's just to intimidate you. Mine got along fairly quickly."

            He seems relieved and he somewhat relaxes. My face is so close to his I can see the dark brown rings that circle his irises. "Plus," I smile, "I'll be there."

            "You're going? Why?"

            "Well, I've already been here about six months, give or take. They've set my re-Evaluation for the same day." I shrug.

            "Great," he groans, a smile spreading across his face. "So I'll have a junkie cheering me on."

            "I hear junkies make the biggest fans."

            We both laugh.

            I wipe the injection area with the same pad. Hovering over his chest, I cup the side of Chase's neck with my left hand and hold the syringe in my right.

            "You know the drill," I say. "Inhale, count to three, then just–"

            "Enjoy the ride," he finishes.

            I raise my brow. "Now who's the junkie?"

            I stick him with the needle and empty its contents into his neck. After tossing the needle, I decide now is as good a time as any to ask Chase about his first day here.

            "You know, there's something I've been meaning to ask for a while now," I begin.

            "About my first day here?" He asks for me. "About what I said?"

            "Yes," I answer him, slight confusion registering on my face.

            "I'm not sure why I said anything. I didn't even know you, but it just came out like I wasn't deciding to say it," Chase explains. "Does that make any sense?"

            "No," I shake my head. "But neither does anything else here."

            "We agree on something else," he laughs.

            "Why are you down there?" Tria stands above me, frowning.

            Startled, I jump up and drop my pencil. Her expression is blank. "I was –uh," I mumble. "I was resting."

            "Down there? In a room half-full of empty beds, you thought it necessary to rest on the floor?" Tria inquires.

            "Yes, I didn't want to mess up any linens."

            "Well, alright." She half-heartedly accepts my explanation. "I'm going to the Confectionary in thirty minutes. I know, I know, it's atrocious weather and I'm crazy but I promised Gail I would stop by and get a loaf of bread." Tria frowns.

            I nod.

            "Would you care to come?" She asks in a leading tone. I realize she was probably inviting me before.

            I agree to join her –feeling guilty for having upset her earlier. The good thing about Tria –she's resilient, just like a child. She smiles, ecstatic, no doubt happy to have company in the cold weather. All is forgiven.

            "Let me just finish my last row. Are you just about set?" She asks.

            "Yes," I say, folding my parchment, tucking it in the clipboard's pocket.

            She dances away. I crane my neck for one last look at the washroom door. I know I won't be getting down there today. At this rate, with all the meticulous monitoring, I won't get a viable chance anytime soon. It would have to be a strategic move.

            Tria and I lace up our snow boots and throw on our coats. The Refinery is quiet but above, the wind howls, rattling the building. It's lofty and freezing on the main floor of the hospital. The front desk is vacant with only one oil lamp perched on the countertop.

            "Ready?" Tria peers through a furry trapper hat –the kind with tassels hanging on either side.

            "Let's go," I urge.

            Outside is worse than ever. It's barely 3:00 in the afternoon and the sky is a whirling grey. I squint so I can keep track of the trail. Using all my effort, I push my body forward against the hurling wind.

            We hike through Bramble Court and up the promenade, traveling side by side like two blurring dots. The streets are destitute –wasted. The only sign of life is the glowing lights shimmering through the windows and the sweet smoke surging from the Confectionary's chimney.

            Hastily we make our way into the familiar sweet shop. Four school children sharing a table in the corner look up from their butternut taffy.

            An older couple occupies the table under the stairs where Charlotte and I sat a month before planning the Berry Ball. Tria and I get in the back of the line behind Tin Hart.

            Oh no.

            "Miss Katton!" He chirps in his signature pip-squeak voice.

            "Hello, Tin Hart." I nod.

            "What a lovely day, isn't it?" Hart bobs up and down. I can't tell whether he intended sarcasm or if he genuinely enjoys the freezing weather.

            "Mmhm," I sigh.

            "It's good to see you out and about looking so well," he rambles on. A peculiar sentiment –as if there were some reason I shouldn't be looking well.

            I smile again. No doubt word of my vanishing act at the Ball diffused around the small town like wildfire –the sorts of stories people must have come up with! Of course, William retreated as well; however, William can do no wrong.

            "Are you keeping good form with the Refinery? Doing your best?" He laughs awkwardly through his questions.

            How intrusive.

            "Yes," I say flatly, but not with too much distaste. "Are you keeping good form at the station?"

            Tria's mouth drops open. Hart looks taken aback, but laughs it off. I need to control my attitude.

            "Doing my best, as always." Hart grins.

            "Let's hope that's good enough," I say.

            The last thing I need is to be questioned by a tinmen. I'd rather save all of the interrogation for the hearing.

            "Let's hope. With your re-Evaluation date set next week, we wouldn't want any delays." He purses his lips.

            "No. We wouldn't." I agree with the same polite discord.

            His mannerisms allude to omniscience. What does he mean 'delays'.

            Luckily the line moves fast and Hart is at the counter, ordering three loaves of cinnamon bread, a pound of flour dough, and a jug of cocoa powder to go.

            He grins with glossy eyes and a blank stare. I haven't spent a ton of time with Tin Hart, but I suspect this is not his normal demeanor. One minute later he scoops up his sack and we move forward.

            "Miss Keller, what can I do you for dear?" Mrs. Hopplebee is leaning over the counter.

            "Just one loaf please," Tria spits out.

            Mrs. Hopplebee retrieves a fresh loaf of bread –still warm from the oven –and wraps it in a brown bag, and all the while I could swear she was throwing me sideways glances from behind her spectacles.

            "There you are dear." Mrs. Hopplebee sets the bag down in front of Tria. I stare noticeably, trying to determine her attitude.

            I canvas the room, suddenly aware of everyone staring at me –and not in the good way. Rationally, I have no reason to believe they're staring at me. Even so, beady eyes penetrate from all corners of the shop.

            Against the window and slightly concealed by hats and scarves, two boys gawk with wide mouths as I follow Tria to the door.

            "Watch it, girl! Outta my way ya wash-up!" An older man shrieks at me in the doorway. It takes me less than 10 seconds to recognize him as Jed Shaw –the belligerently loquacious native I crossed at the Berry Ball. 

            "Sorry." I slur my words on purpose, awarding him the same respect he offered me. I back into the doorframe to let him pass. Pinky follows behind him, wrinkling her nose like I reek of rotten eggs.

            "Yea, outta our way ya wash-up!" She repeats her husband's words, snickering in a toothless grin.

            "How insanely rude," Tria shouts as we step into the cold. "You'd think they'd have eased up after the incident. The nerve of some natives..."

            "I guess some people can't accept change." I know by incident Tria is referring to Garner Brynne all but cursing Shaw out of the Berry Ball –all at my expense.

            "Well, anyone who doesn't like how things are run here is more than welcome to pack up." Tria nods her head, resolved.

            "What's up with everyone today?" I mutter, more to myself than to Tria.

            "It's the weather." She shrugs it off –mastering apathetic indifference.

            "Right. It's got to be the weather," I say.

From that day on, everywhere I went I noticed the watchful eyes of the townspeople. I found myself checking around every corner and watching over my shoulder. Whenever I walked into a room, it fell under a shield of impenetrable silence.

            Yesterday, a middle-aged couple started harassing me as I passed by Cedar Lodge –accusing me of turning. Wiry Ced had to calm them down. I had no idea what "turning" was, but now I only assume they meant I'm transforming into a refusal.

Ced told me Jed and Pinky Shaw are always skeptical about wash-ups –they don't think it's natural. I can't blame them, considering it isn't. Their banter causes outbreaks of spasmodic activity and whispered rumors about refugees' mental states.

            If only they knew.

            "Goodnight, my girl." I peck Ora's nose.

            It's early enough in the night that my whereabouts shouldn't be suspicious. I've made it a point to return before dark every day.

            "Evelyn." Nic's lenient voice sounds behind me.

            "Nic!" I almost shout, stumbling back. I spoke too soon. Damn.

            "Were you expecting someone else?"

            "No. No, I was just sitting out here with Ora. I didn't think you were home yet," I lie.

            Leaning against the doorframe in his jacket, he looks too much like William, even for real brothers. His shaggy hair casts a shadow on his forehead under the barn lights. His eyes look dark.

            "Where are you coming in from?" He eyes my riding boots. The one thing I respect most about Nicolas: he always cuts to the chase.

            "I was in town with Tria." I am lying again.

            "You know, Evelyn, I was once practiced in the arts of deception. Nothing gets past me."

            "Great." I slump down.

            "I don't judge you for wanting your space or your secrets. I do, after all, empathize with your situation. You haven't forgotten that I've been in your place?" He asks.

            "No, I haven't forgotten."

            "I know Charlotte can be... overbearing at times. She means well, and I'd like to know that I'm not lying when she asks me where you've been and I neglect to answer. Don't make me regret keeping your secret." He finishes.

            "Nicolas, I–" I pause. What do I say? I've never had such an intense conversation with him.

            "It's alright. I'm only one person, but don't think the rest of the town hasn't started to notice as well." He holds up his hand to silence me.

            "Notice what?" I get defensive.

            "Kemper is a small town, Evelyn. Too often people meddle in others' affairs. I would hate to see rumors started because of it," Nicolas says. Where is this coming from?

            "What rumors?" My face heats up. "I'm not–"

            "You aren't, no. But how do you think rumors get started, Evelyn?" His voice deepens. He remains silent for a minute and the air swirls between us. "Like this. They start like this."

            "But I was just..." I trail off... out of excuses.

            "Like I said, you're allowed your secrets. Just see to it that no one discovers them." His eyes flash once more between my muddy riding boots, my snowy jacket, and me. "You might want to leave those outside."

            "Right."

/  /  /

Today is the 4th of February, just four days left. The past week dawdled by, running its course like viscous molasses. I'm no closer to where I want to be and now I have to deal with my impending re-Evaluation.

            My surveillance detail has doubled. William looks at me with longing –desperate to help. I want so badly to yell, to criticize him for betraying me. Only, I'm not supposed to know.

            I've been having wild dreams again, too.

            They vary, but always bring me a sense of abandonment. Two nights ago, I willed myself to dream of home and to my delight I succeeded. I'm training my subconscious.

            I don't belong here.

            I don't.