Evan was remembering a time, in the sixth grade, when he'd taken the class goldfish out of its bowl and watched it die, suffocate to death, right there on the table in front of him. There was such a power in that—watching a thing die, knowing you controlled its living or not, seeing it hurt and understanding that you were the controller of its pain—you had the ability to administer that torture just as you had the ability to offer relief. Such extreme power. He'd been sitting at the back table doing some catch-up work for some reason, and nobody had even noticed what he was doing until some girl turned away from the lesson and started crying because "Evan killed the fish!"

He'd gotten in some trouble for that. The administrator had brushed it off as one of those stupid things middle school boys do, but Evan still recalled the way that slimy little goldfish had looked as it flopped on the table, fins flapping, eyes bulging, sides pumping as its gills sought H20, and he knew that most other kids wouldn't have felt what he'd felt as he watched it. He intricately recalled how it had made more spastic movements toward the end as it attempted a few last lunges toward life, and then how it had gone still, and his thrill had vanished, because he no longer controlled its life or its pain.

He felt a lot like that goldfish, now. He was powerless to end his constant pain, his building frustrations. Somewhere in his head, he wondered if there was someone above, watching him struggle, possessing the ability to relieve or further torture. Someone who was like him as he'd sat over that dying goldfish.

Of course, then, that would indicate some greater being—some form of a god—and Evan wasn't sure he believed in anything like that. If there was something out there, it was pretty damn cruel to let him suffer, and he didn't want to get to know a god who was like that. He didn't want to worship someone who had put such horrific desires in him, such abnormal, sadistic tendencies. What kind of a greater being was that, except sick and twisted? Like him. Sick and twisted. That's what they'd call him at school if they knew. It was what he'd heard his own parents call him at one time. But they just didn't understand. And how could he explain that he wasn't sick and twisted—that he had this thing in him that would just not let him alone—that would hurt and scar and bruise and burst if he let it go without satisfying it? They wouldn't understand. No. They wouldn't.

But now, he felt almost as if he was paying for some of what he'd done. His recent frustration had built up so high that, if it were possible, he'd be in his yard skinning horses to make it go away. He'd had migraines for the past few days because he'd been unable to relieve himself. And the reason for his super-high anxiety was that incident with the maggot. That disgusting, squirmy little thing that he'd found on his floor and practically thrown up over. Two days had passed . . . and two more maggots had appeared in his room, one in the corner, by his floor lamp, and another inside his closet, right by one of his shoes . . . actually moving toward it . . . like it was about to crawl inside.

And part of him was freaking out that it was all the same maggot—it had come back from the toilet to haunt him. Either that or it was some disgusting infestation that had somehow gone unnoticed until now. Was the house just all of a sudden going to be crawling with maggots? But how? Evan had heard of roach, ant, termite, even spider infestations, but he'd never heard of maggot infestations. They didn't have anything to live on in the house; his parents were such neat freaks they bleached their sheets three times a month! Maggots fed off of rotting things . . . disgusting filth. Nothing in his house was festering or rotting, that he knew of. Definitely not anything in his room, and that was the only place he'd found them so far. He was kind of afraid to go in there at all, and he'd woken up nearly hyperventilating from a nightmare in which his entire bed had been overrun with the squishy little white things.

He couldn't tell his parents. Not unless he found some outside his room. Then he'd know it wasn't just like something was purposely against him. The whole idea that some bug-thing he'd flushed could actually come back to harass him was ridiculous, he knew. In fact, he'd totally believe he was hallucinating, except for the fact that each time, he'd been able to pick them up and flush them.

It was really bizarre. He didn't know how to deal with it.

The phone was ringing downstairs; he let the answering machine pick it up. It was his mother. She left a message for Evan, telling him not to forget to take the package on the table to the post office as soon as he got up. He'd already been awake for nearly an hour and was sitting in the sun porch off his parents' bedroom, trying to concentrate on some work about genetics but not really able to. He'd mostly been staring out the window at the clear-but-gray day, wondering about the goldfish and how he could possibly control himself if he didn't get back into acting.

He'd have to go back to school, he realized, if he wanted his sanity to return.

The package. He'd take care of the package now. It'd get his mind off of his own self for a little while.

He dressed quickly, trying to get out of his bedroom as fast as possible, grabbed the box (some wedding present for a remote cousin of his), and headed out, car keys in hand. The drive was short—about ten minutes—and he was at his destination before he knew it. Evan hardly ever had reason to go to the post office. He didn't mail things; lately, he hadn't wanted to communicate with anybody, even through email or the phone. Not even the friends from his old school who didn't know about everything that had happened. He was paranoid to talk. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He was afraid of what he'd say.

"Evan? Evan Berkly?"

He spun around. Coming up the sidewalk, just behind him, was a grinning kid he'd taken drama II with last semester. Noah Pyle. Evan had never really been friends with him; he found the guy kind of obnoxious. Noah was in his grade, short, perpetually talkative, a nice-enough guy but just didn't know when to shut up.

Evan really wasn't interested in talking to him now. Or ever, for that matter.

"What's going on?" he replied half-heartedly. "Aren't you supposed to be in school or something?"

Noah grinned wider (if that was possible). "Yeah, or something." He laughed loudly. "Naw, man. I'm like, skipping. Had my mom call me in sick, actually. I got a lot of crap to do with all applying for colleges and crap. You know, applications, mailing crap, that's why I'm here, you know?"

Raising an eyebrow without realizing it, Evan said, "To mail . . . crap?"

"Yeah! You know—college crap."

"Riiight . . ." How could he get away from this guy without looking too rude?

"So what's up with you, man?" Noah smacked Evan's arm. Hard. "You haven't been around in a while. Where you been?"

"At home."

"Every day?"

"Every day."

"Man . . ." Noah looked genuinely impressed. After a minute of processing, he added, "Must be a pretty sweet deal."

Evan shrugged, trying really hard not to roll his eyes. "Yeah. Well, I've got to mail this package, you know, so . . ." He raised the box and sort of shook it.

Noah practically jumped. "Oh yeah, man, sure, sure. Sorry. Go on in. After you."

To Evan's disappointment, Noah followed him in to the counter and took a number right after he did.

"So you were friends with that one girl, right?" Noah picked up conversation again.

"What one girl?" Evan hoped the lack of enthusiasm in his voice would help Noah take a hint.

No such luck.

"I think her last name is . . . like . . . Huffman or something."

Haushalt. Ada Haushalt. Evan turned to fully face Noah, catching the guy off guard. "Ada? What about her?"

Noah stumbled back a step. "Aw, it's weird, man. Like in math a few days ago, she all flips out with some freaky poem. Like about she wants to kill herself or some crap. And they made her leave and I haven't seen her in math for a few days, come to think of it." Something seemed to suddenly connect in Noah's head. "Hey, you were both friends with that Zach kid, right? Are those rumors true? You know, cause man . . . there's this one about you and him and it's pretty weird, and—"

Evan had lost his patience, and his number had been called. He chopped Noah's comment short with, "I don't know," went to the counter, and busied himself with talking to the mail clerk. Noah had finally sensed Evan's annoyance, because he didn't attempt any more conversation other than a "See ya!" when Evan passed him on the way out.

He hadn't meant to come off rude, but Noah's comments about Ada had upset him. The kill-herself bit. She was still affected by all of it. A lot, obviously. Whether she was suicidal for real or seeking attention or whatever—there was some real issue there, and Evan knew it had to be the same as what was eating at him. He'd seriously contemplated contacting her. Now, he was sure he should try and do it. Maybe . . . maybe they could—together—figure this mess out. The thought was far-fetched, but it gave him a little bit of hope.