I feel like death warmed over the next morning. Actually, that might be giving death too much credit. I am alive, and I am not warmed over: in my half-awake stupor, I almost convince myself that Clarice has finally made off with our window, but opening my eyes robs her imaginary avatar of such mastery. The window is shut, the sky is grey, and the glass cries with the rain beating down outside. This building's architects, meanwhile, went the faithful route with their Gothic impersonations and forsook any semblance of insulation. Drafts leak from the room's every pore.

I am severely tempted to roll over and skip class. It's a brief, cute respite, and lasts all of four seconds before the memories of last night slam into me like a horse-drawn tram. I choke. It's just as well that Clarice is up and gone, because I spend the next half-minute retching into my pillow as stark fear and the feel of stepping on a body overwhelm my senses. When get my breathing in a straightjacket again, I roll onto my back and lie there, sweat-soaked and shaking. Last night was a bad dream. It certainly feels that way, refracted through a poor night's sleep like the grim daylight through our rain-warped windowpanes.

If last night was a dream, I'm safe to get up and go to class. If it was not, one of two things is true. Either some Melliford Academy staff member is writing an awful, tragic letter to Colson's parents, or the killer is still here.

Clarice isn't in the room. A vivid image of her dead in a staircase grips my mind. I shock upright, clinging to my bedcovers. She can't die; we need to work together to solve this, whatever this is. I scrub my hand over my comforter. My body-tainted fingers might as well have bloodstains on them; I can't rid them of the feeling. Part of me wonders if Exie is handling this as pitifully as I am. I doubt it. She's always put together: always the one with a plan and a custom persona, tailored for just the occasion. Must be nice.

I have no way of knowing what's outside my door until I open it, and the possibility of a dream or accident still clings to me like a small dog with separation anxiety. I leave the warm shell of my covers and drag yesterday's skirt towards me, digging for my suitcase key. Both pockets come up empty. Of course they do. I should have known I couldn't make it three days without misplacing something.

"Open sesame," I grumble.

Willpower makes a shitty pair of lockpicks. I shake my suitcase lock, then dig a hairpin from a side pocket and pick it the old-fashioned way. Then I fumble with the clasp, too. Rather than a hundred more logical options to overcome my shaking fingers, I grab the suitcase and yank the clasp open with my teeth. Salty with a hint of metal. I let it drop again, wiping my mouth with the back of one useless hand.

I could have just worn my uniform from yesterday. It still languishes at the foot of my bed, where I discarded it upon donning darker clothes last night. But anything from yesterday feels contaminated, and I'm not about to argue with irrationality. I exhume my spare uniform instead and waste another quarter-hour changing, getting buttons wrong and sacrificing symmetrical blazer lapels in the name of my waning sanity. I've probably missed breakfast by now. But with my stomach still questioning its affability towards its own lack of contents, maybe that's not a bad thing.

I freeze one more time before leaving, one hand on the door handle as an irrational need for Exie's stolen fire poker grips me. My paralysis is broken by the start-of-class bell. I turn my face heavenward. I'd pray to God for protection as I leave this place, but I'm told she doesn't watch over problem children.

The door opens onto a surreal view. Students trot to class, laughing and nattering amongst themselves. Nobody's told them. Nobody here knows what I've been through, except maybe the teachers, and I trust exactly none of them. I scan the crowd for Exie. Two fruitless passes bring the nausea coiling back. This time, it's Exie's body in my mind's eye. I reach towards it, but I can't touch. I can't put myself through that again.

Dizzy and unmoored from any mental anchors, I drag my tunnel vision to my route to class and attempt to act normal. I'm sure I'm clutching my books too hard. I'm sure I must look a fright. I definitely forgot to comb my hair this morning. By the time I reach the classroom, though, it dawns on me that Exie was right about one thing. My deranged reputation has preceded me. Students shoot me sideways glances, but given the scale of my disheveled appearance, they might as well not have batted an eye.

Then I step through the doorway, and all those thoughts are blown aside. There at her usual desk is Exie. Whole, hale, alive, and undamaged. Clarice is here, too, but I can't tear my eyes off Exie. Off her hands as they unpack her pencil case with deft and eminently living motions. Off her body's motion as she turns to ask something of another student, a false smile pasted over her expression. Off the bounce of her freshly twisted hair. Like she'll drop dead like Colson if I so much as look away.

"Move," says an irate voice behind me. "You're not a door."

I stumble forward, half seeing, and get two steps towards Exie before it hits me that I look suspicious. I normally sit at the back of the class. Except Exie was right about two things now: we're project partners. We can justify proximity. Exie startles as I stop beside her. She deals me a perfunctory greeting, back to her good-student persona and its required disdain for riffraff. Her eyes skip past me. They lock onto something by the door, and a look of abject horror drains the warmth of color from her skin.

I spin around just as Colson walks into the classroom.

Exie grips my wrist and draws me down into the chair next to her—the chair I pitched through the classroom window just the day before. That window is already repaired. "Don't look suspicious," Exie says under her breath. "We're not supposed to know."

How she's still so calm is beyond me. I'm about to spew my nonexistent breakfast on the floor all over again. So is Colson, by the looks of it. He was always pale, but his complexion now is a different kind of ghastly, like bread dough forgotten for too long beneath a damp towel. I pinch myself, but the tableau doesn't fade. Exie begins to unpack her pencil case again. I want to scream. I want to run. I want to throw something. But throwing things is now bound by the bet Exie and I made last night, and I'm nothing if not competitive. I lay out my books and stare at their covers just to keep my eyes off Colson's approach.

The universe, though, has a cruel sense of humor. Insentient footsteps shuffle up the aisle towards me. I break out in gooseflesh with each passing step, until I'm sure every hair on my body stands on end. A chair scrapes just across the aisle. I could reach out and touch his shoulder. I'll be sitting arm's length from a walking corpse for the rest of today.

A dark hand sneaks towards me in the corner of my vision. Exie tips it up to reveal a slip of paper underneath, meant for my eyes only. My face heats up. Her handwriting is a gorgeous kind of curly—the kind whose acrobatics would do a swallow proud whenever I attempt to read it. I struggle over the lettering and manage to decode the message after an uncomfortably long pause. He's breathing, she's written. I have the presence of mind not to look at Colson directly.

He is breathing. And now that I'm paying attention, I can't help a full appraisal. Colson looks like he's been walked through the devil's private chambers and borne witness to things no mortal should. He moves with the unholy predestination of an automaton, absent free will, or at very least intention. I swallow down a sudden empathy for the plight of Exie's brother.

"Sleep well?" I manage.

He stops unpacking, hands paused at the edge of his desk. He blinks. Then he looks at me with empty eyes and says, "Yes, thank you."

Colson isn't home anymore.

I don't realize I'm shaking again until Exie pinches my sleeve and tugs. I drop both hands back below desk level. It's some miracle Mrs. Hardwork hasn't taken interest in me yet. Maybe feigning insanity is my best chance at survival. It'll explain any behavior I can't hide. What I can't know is what the consequences might be in a school that, true to Exie's prophecy, seems built to chew up delinquents and spit them out, lobotomized.

I never even knew what Colson's problem was.

Colson II continues unpacking school supplies. He's already laid out enough writing utensils to furnish a university, and stacks up six or seven notebooks even as I watch. When he runs out of those, he hauls his satchel up and empties it. A cache of animal bones spills across the desk. He stares at them, emotionless.

"Colson, dear," says Mrs. Hardwick. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, sounding dazed. He begins to gather the bones. Slender ribs make rings about his fingers.

Mrs. Hardwick smiles and points to the bin beside the door. "You can leave them there."

He does, emptying what must have been a personal collection into the trash. Then he retrieves his satchel and shakes it out over the bin. Rat-sized vertebrae rain down, followed by a desiccated bird's wing and what looks like a clump of dog hair. At least, I hope it's dog hair.

"Thank you, dear," says Mrs. Hardwick. Colson II doesn't respond. He returns to his desk, and is about to take a seat again when his motions stutter. His gaze darts back to the trash can. Temptation. It's a flash of the original, but before my hopes rise, Colson II slips a hand into his pocket, and his expression falls back into impassivity. As he sits, that pocket gapes slightly, and I see what's inside.

It's the paper dove.

Exie is writing something; she didn't see it. My fingers itch to slip her a note of my own, but she forestalls me with another. It takes me even longer to read than the first one. My mind has decided an out-of-body experience sounds like a great vacation, and is trying to attain one. Mrs. Hardwick rises to start today's class. I tune out her rambling and pin down each letter one by one. Meet in the library after class, Exie's note reads. Bring your roommate.

I nod, and Exie crumples the paper in a casual fist. She lets it drop to the ground. It tumbles without pattern, but my mind has cracked somehow. I can't unsee the dove in its fluttering. 

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