I'm going to lose my mind. It's been days since I've spoken to another human being. Typically, I'd find this realization enjoyable. Now? I find myself searching for glowing doors just for the hope that I'll hear some mysterious higher power come over the intercom.

But so far I haven't found any more doors, none emitting supernatural light at least. The last message or clue or whatever you want to call it that I've gotten from the Fold was the phone call. The ambiguous message from the disembodied voice via the red telephone. Heed the call.

Every time I close my eye, I see the red telephone sitting on the table in the center of the white room. It looks like one of those emergency telephones you only see in ERs or that belongs in a ship's infirmary. I hear it ring. I see myself ignore it. Then it rings again. The voice haunts me. It haunts me in the same way the jazz song haunted me.

The streetlights flicker when I walk under them. I'm hopeful at least maybe they can sense my paranormal presence. It's dusk and I've only seen three cars in the last hour. The town is quiet today, emptier than usual. Brightly colored discount ads hang in the windows of the shops that line Main Street. Yes, we have a Main Street. I think it's a small town prerequisite.

I walk to the end of the street and turn left. The stone quarry is half a mile outside town. Sometimes I would sneak out at night and walk here. It's where the cool stoner kids hung out and blazed –where the emo kids listened to sad songs on repeat –and where all the lusty couples met up to get it on.

I always came later though, after everyone else had left. The rocks would be littered with broken beer bottles, cigarette butts and other toxic waste like hopes and dreams. I would climb the highest drill tower and skirt out to sit on the edge. I liked the feeling of my feet dangling over the vast valley -over the nothingness.

The wheel loaders and crushing machines would cast disfigured shadows under the moonlight. I liked to pretend they were monsters of the night. They couldn't reach me high up on the tower. Silly, I know.

A loud crack echoes in the night and jerks me back to reality, back to the quarry. I look down below for the source of the disturbance and see a small animal scampering across the gravel. I roll my eyes, about to close them again but then I see something else.

I see a shadowy silhouette, stark under the light of the sky. As he gets closer, I realize I recognize him.

He's strolling down the path in front of the quarry gate. I can tell it's him by his slow walk, all hunched and low key slouching. It's probably he is weighed down by all the chips on his shoulder.

I can't remember his name, but I sure remember his reputation: Partying, Drugs, Alcohol. The triple threat. Black clothing and all the emo music one person can possibly listen to. Air of general despair.

He spends his time at school alone, brooding, and walking aimlessly around campus between classes. I heard he's ditched more than any other student in the junior year. He's constantly in detention for one thing or another. And when he feels like school drama isn't enough, he gets into trouble with the actual law.

I've known of him since I can remember starting school but I've maybe said three words to him my whole life. Sad.

I wonder how many people think of me this way. I'm the person they know but whose name they can't remember. They see me and think wrinkled sweater or she's the one who walks to school. I guess now it will be coma girl.

Maybe it's still better than town druggie.

He turns in the gate and walks to the bottom of the drill tower. The one I am currently perched on the edge of. I tense briefly before I remember it doesn't matter. No one can see me. Still, I feel uneasy as he approaches closer. It's not that I'm afraid of him. It's just that I don't care for him.

For a minute he just stands with his head thrown back, staring up. It's like he's looking through me to the vast sea of stars above. Can't blame him. I don't remember this clear a night ever gracing our sad town. I watch the stars myself, examining the endless clusters of light energy. Maybe I appreciate them more now that I'm -well, now that I'm coma girl.

I feel a slight jolt beneath me and realize the beam has moved a fraction of an inch, propelled forward. He has started to climb the ladder.

Damn. Sure, he can't see me and could technically walk right through me or sit on me and nothing would even happen. But still. I like being alone here and something tells me he came here seeking the same solace. He climbs much faster than I do. In a blink, he is already walking out onto the metal shelf.

I smell his cologne or deodorant or whatever it is that's clinging to his flannel sweater. He sits a foot away from me on the ledge and allows his feet to dangle over.

"I'm usually alone up here." His voice cracks like a whip in the silent night.

My heads snaps quickly to the side, my jaw joining the gravel on the ground. I cannot believe my ears and for a second I almost don't.

"You can... see me?" I ask, hesitant. It feels weird -talking out loud to someone other than myself. It's like I forgot how to do it.

"Of course I can see you," he says. His eyes narrow on mine momentarily before he turns his head to the sky again.

He's probably wondering if I'm the one on drugs right now.

I start to hyperventilate. Suddenly I am so aware of me and of him and of the two of us in the quarry. I'm aware how high up we are. How insane I must look to him. Too many questions flood my mind and it's going to drown for sure. Poor choice of words.

"Hey, I recognize you from school," he says, quiet.

Of course he does. But then, doesn't he know where I am? Where I really am? Doesn't he know I'm lying in a hospital bed right now?

I am about to say as much before he speaks again.

"Quinn, right? Quinn Hart?" He looks at me for some confirmation. I nod my head and he half smiles. "Thought so. I'm Otis Price."

Otis. That's his name. Only, the Otis Price I remember is the ten year-old I used to have gym class with. He's grown a lot since then, in more ways than one.

"Why are you up here?" I ask. Starting small, good job, Quinn.

"You're the one asking me that?" Otis smiles.

"I guess I am," I mumble. This feels so weird to me. I can't keep my hands from shaking.

"Everything Ok?" He asks.

"I -Yes. It's just, I mean don't you know?" I ask.

"Don't I know what?" Otis looks down at me, his brows creased in the center. Up close he's kind of cute, in a very unassuming way. But it's the way he says what with a grin that makes me double-take.

"That... I'm..." I let my voice trail away. My eyes wander from his. How do I say this?

"That you're dying?" Otis suggests.

"Something like that," I say, sighing. "I just don't understand how you can see me."

He must hear the inflection, because he frowns. Is he embarrassed or ashamed? Otis stares at me, intense. "Maybe I see things all the time. Apparitions. Ghosts."

"I'm not a ghost," I blurt out.

Of course, I can't be sure what exactly I am. But Otis Price, resident bad boy and troublemaker can see me. Not only that, but he can hear me too!

"Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't." He shrugs. "I'm not judging. I'm just wondering what you're doing out here all alone. Thinking about jumping?"

I almost crack a laugh, but just shake my head. "I've been alone for days," I say, my voice sounding as bitter as the chill feels.

"You don't have to be alone anymore. If you don't want." He mumbles, shrugging again.

I look at him sideways. There's something about him that just feels safe -that just feels right. I can't quite put my ghostly finger on it, but something makes me want to take him up on his offer.

After what feels like days or weeks of absolute solitude, I know being alone with Otis will be better than being alone without him.

"I don't." My lips barely move.

Otis smiles and pushes the sleeve of his sweatshirt back. I catch a glimpse of his scarred wrists. A small gasp escapes my lips; my breath spirals in the cold night. He reaches for my hand, waiting for me. I swallow the lump rising in my throat. This is it.

I feel his cold skin brush against mine, solid. Real.

The sheer joy I get from the feeling of human contact can't be beaten. Except by one thing. One truth.

Otis Price is my anchor.