The chances of dying in a tornado were 1 in 60,000. I read that statistic in tenth grade; I don't recall where, but it stuck. Cindy was now the hypothetical 1, in a town of less than 500; a sacrificial lamb ensuring our good favor when spring merged into the sweltering heat of summer.

With the town clean-up underway, word about Cindy traveled fast. We were all committed to stripping the debris from our yards, but we proceeded with a knot in our stomachs. The entire town playing the same game of Russian roulette; someone might discover Cindy, and nobody wanted it to be them.

Further up the road, a scavenger from the salvage yard dug through a community refuse pile for the reusable and resellable. The water tower, notable for the painted slogan 'Go Paradise Wolves,' now tilted like our own mini Pisa, half a world away, on the wrong side of the planet.

Standing straighter, I leaned on the shovel; sweat beaded across my forehead. Everyone was doing the same thing except the tiny three-bed abode across the street. I never came across a worse-looking house. The picket fence that represented the Ackerman's property boundaries sat askew; that wasn't Derek; it had always done that. The grass in the front yard was knee-high, and any flowers were long dead.

A cobalt-Blue Rock-rider Mountain bike skidded up, snapping me from my thoughts, dropping to the ground with a thud.

Simon glared at me. "You've ignored my texts."

"I already heard Penny Ackerman phone this morning. What do you think happened? Mom says it's weird the Police department isn't investigating."

"Any number of things could have happened. Plus, accidental deaths don't get investigated, just like those college kids from upstate, who get drunk on a bar crawl, go to take a piss in the river, and end up falling in."

"They figure she could be dead?" I repeated his sentiment. Everything surrounding her disappearance was odd.

Simon sighed and kicked a rock embedded in the dirt. "I overheard my Dad saying there was a high probability she got into trouble on the way back from school, courtesy of 'Derek.' But let's face it, we've all heard the rumors, right? Cindy's a free spirit of sorts."

"Yeah, so I've been told." I nodded. "But you don't think the rumors are true?"

"That's not my place to say." He shrugged. "I don't think we ever spoke more than two words to each other."

The Ackerman's screen door burst open; Penny appeared, balancing a flame-haired child on each hip. She strapped them into car seats, went to the driver's side of the estate, and climbed in.

Simon and I froze mid-stare.

Penny seemed older somehow, not an ounce of make-up. She sat momentarily with her hands clenched around the steering wheel.

The Cherry scented air freshener that hung from the visor rocked back and forth as the toddlers bounced in their car seats. Penny's attention seemed fixated on something else in the distance, but, at the same time, she was not seeing anything at all. Her eyes snapped to me, and her expression changed. Was she waiting for the now customary "Did Cindy turn up?" Not understanding what someone says in a situation like this was awkward, so I smiled at the poor woman and turned back to Simon.

"Wanna get out of here and grab snacks?" Simon asked.

"Sure," I replied, not listening. Penny's glare still burned a hole in my back; I was sure of it. When the engine started, I breathed a sigh of relief.

We cut through the cornfield. Simon pushed his bike as I strode behind. The coarse leaves fanned out and snitched against the fabric of my shirt. Glancing at my watch, it was a quarter after four, and the sun-kissed low on the horizon. Most of the town was out and about. Still, there was an air of apathy where Cindy's disappearance was concerned, a residual effect I suspected was attributed to Zachary 'boots-in-a-tree' Evans.

No one was talking about her. Everything that wasn't said was said with their eyes.

Standing outside the grocery store, I realized late that it was Tuesday. Having an unplanned day off school had thrown my perception of time and date out of the window. Calvin Parsons would be working the till. It didn't take a genius to figure out we were not on the best terms.

We planted the seed that dissolved our friendship during last semester's school production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. We both signed up to play Puck, and in an administration error, or hope one of us would flake, we were both awarded the part on alternative showings.

Two minutes before my stage debut, Calvin showed up on the wrong night, although ever since, he maintained it was his. Moments before the curtain parted, our tales became tangled. Calvin twisted to detach himself, making it ten times worse. The curtain parted just in time for the auditorium to hear me shout at Calvin, "Get your god-forsaken ball-sack off of my leg!" Our twinned pointy ears made the whole soiree worse, making us look like two warlocks in love, except we weren't warlocks or in love.

The hushed chatter of the crowd muted. In the deafening silence that preceded, I knew I'd just committed social suicide. Then a shrieking cackle I knew only too well as Emma's reverberated like a second mocking chorus.

Calvin Parsons and that damn Warlock costume still haunted me to this day and was what I thought to be, at least, the sole reason Daniel Garry tormented me. From then on, Daniel would over-shout the word 'ball-sack' whenever my name was called during registration.

I stopped still. "I'll wait for you out here."

"You're seriously not going inside with me? When will you get over that?"

I arched an eyebrow that implied never and thrust a ten-dollar bill into his hand. "I can't go in. I mean anything sweet, anything with tooth-decay written all over it." I smiled for encouragement.

Ten minutes later, Simon returned. "You are not keeping the change," he remarked, pushing a plastic carrier bag into my chest as we began the route home.

After dinner, I retreated into my room. Emma was yapping on the phone through our paper-thin walls. I gave up on peace and got my favorite vinyls out.

My hand glided over the cover, and I turned it over. Some of my records were relics, older than my years, and my most treasured possessions. I slid out the record and lifted the dust cover from the record player. Placing the vinyl down, I turned on the turntable. The speaker's crackle after the tonearm touched down was heavenly.

As the record spun, a grungy voice filled the room. The gritty guitar chords and pounding drums pulsed through my veins. The angst and rebellion in the lyrics spoke to me. For a moment, I was transported to a grungy club in Seattle, surrounded by like-minded teens, nowhere near Texas.

Suddenly, there was a knock on my door. Emma's voice came through the door, "Hey, can I come in?"

I sighed, reluctantly pausing the music. "Sure," I said.

Emma pushed open the door. "I wanted to check you were okay. I know once-upon-a-time, you and Cindy hung out a little. News like this must be a shocker."

I nodded, "Yeah. I just can't believe she's missing."

Emma walked over to my record player and picked up the album cover. "Nirvana, huh? I didn't know you were into this kind of music."

I shrugged, "It's just something different, you know? It's not like the pop songs on the radio."

Emma smiled, "Yeah, I get it." She paused for a moment, then said, "If you need to talk Nick..."

I nodded, and she turned to leave, closing the door behind her.

I lay back down on the bed, and finally relaxed. In my dreams, I'm someone else. I envisage I'm capable of standing up to Daniel Garry and making him feel small. Never in my wildest fucking dreams am I ever the hero.

After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, at some point, I must have drifted off to sleep. I didn't even remember closing my eyes, but when I woke up, it was past dusk. The house was quiet, with the exception of the oscillating fan in the corner.

Cracking an eyelid, I blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the darkness of the room. It took seconds for my eyes to focus on the face staring back at me. Cindy Ackerman stood at the bottom of my bed like a corpse ripped straight from my nightmares.

Scrunching my eyes tightly closed, I counted to five and gave my demons-in-the-dark chance to disappear.

One...

Two...

My eyes popped open early on three. I rubbed my eyes, half-expecting Cindy to disappear when I opened them again. But she was still there, nail-biting and looking desperate. Cindy Ackerman seemed as clear as the last day I saw her: strawberry-blonde hair and those stormy blue eyes. Despite my skepticism, I couldn't deny the feeling of unease that was creeping up on me.

She was real. I scooted up until my back lay flush against the headboard. "Why are you here?"

She looked at me as if this was an existential, meaning-of-life question. Cindy plopped down on the bottom of the bed and began biting her nails as if her presence here wasn't out of place, just as much as my alarm clock or bedside table.

She took a deep breath and exhaled. "Nick, you can see me." When she said it, she looked deep into my eyes; her face betrayed nothing but sincerity.

"Everyone is looking for you."

"They need to try harder." She cut me a sideways glance.

What on earth did she think I could do for her?

"Something happened, but my brain is so freaking fuzzy; it's not even funny. I need to find out what happened and why I'm still here... with you."

I frowned at a loss of what to say to her. I stared at Cindy dumbfounded; No, Nick, brace yourself; she'd just come right out and said it. She thought she was dead and lodged on the edge of my bed, wanting to chat the night away.

Despite the best poker face I had ever seen, I struggled to find the truth in her words. Emma was right; Cindy was on an award-winning bender, and she was now in my house for reasons unbeknownst to me.

"I think I'm dead."

Her words hung in the air, and I struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what was happening. Was I hallucinating? Was this some kind of joke?

"Why do you think you're dead?" I studied her face for the slightest shift of emotion. y hand patted around for my cell phone, ready to dial 911.

"Everyone's ignoring me," she said, her words drowned in a sudden sorrow. "I can't shake the feeling something bad happened."

Barely being able to absorb Cindy's incoherent ramblings, I did the only logical thing I could think of. I grabbed my journal from the bedside table and launched it at her. Flying through the air, it sliced through her torso as if she were fluid, skimming the bed and slamming the opposite wall with a thud.

My jaw slackened, and my heart threatened to punch a hole in my chest and stop altogether. There was no way this was possible, probable, or even happening. My blood temperature dropped, and I strained to listen past the drum of my heartbeat.

Cindy's eyes fell to the floor as if she'd not been surprised this happened.

There were still no words forming in my mind; dread rose from the pit of my stomach, pushing past the chill in my veins. Cindy Ackerman was dead or the best optical illusionist I'd ever seen. The way she looked at me, the desperation in her eyes, convinced me this was no prank. If Cindy really was dead, then what was she doing here? And why me?

"Okay, let's say I believe you," I said slowly. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I need you to help me find out what happened to me," Cindy said, her voice quivering. "I don't remember anything after leaving school. The last thing I know, I was walking home, and then... nothing."

I hesitated, unsure of what to do. I wasn't a detective and had no experience with this kind of thing. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I was about to say.

"Cindy. I'm sorry. I'm not the one to help you."

Cindy looked at me, vulnerable and lost, and I hoped the next person wouldn't turn her away.