I should have given her my phone number, I think.

Then I stop myself. I stand there right in the middle of the hallway, shocked. It’s such a mundane, ordinary observation—but that’s what stops me. In the context of my life, it’s nonsensical. There was no way for me to give her a phone number. I know this. And yet, the ordinary thought crept in, made me trick myself for a moment into thinking that I, too, was ordinary.

I have no idea what this means, but I suspect it’s dangerous.

At lunch, I tell James I’m going to the library.

“Dude,” he says, “libraries are for girls.”

There aren’t any new messages from Rhiannon, so I write to her instead.

Rhiannon,

You’d actually recognize me today. I woke up as James’s twin. I thought this might help me figure things out, but so far, no luck.

I want to see you again.

A

There isn’t anything from Nathan, either. Once more I decide to type his name into a search engine, figuring there might be a few more articles about what he’s saying.

I find over two thousand results. All from the past three days.

Word is spreading. Mostly from evangelical Christian sites, which have bought Nathan’s devil claims wholesale. He is, for them, just another example of the world going to H-E-double-hockey-sticks.

From what I can recall, none of the many versions I heard as a child of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” spent that much time pondering the emotional state of the boy, especially after the wolf finally showed up. I want to know what Nathan is thinking, if he really believes what he’s saying. None of the articles and blogs are any help—he’s saying the same thing in all of them, and people are painting him as either a freak or an oracle. Nobody’s sitting him down and treating him like a sixteen-year-old boy. They are missing the real questions in order to ask the sensational ones. I open up his last email.

You can’t avoid my questions forever. I want to know who you are. I want to know why you do what you do.

Tell me.

But how can I respond without confirming at least part of the story he’s created? I feel that he’s right—in some way, I can’t avoid his questions forever. They will start to dig into me. They will follow me wherever I wake up. But to give him any answer will give him a reassurance I know I shouldn’t give. It will keep him on his path.

My best bet is for him to start feeling that he is, indeed, crazy. Which is an awful thing to wish upon someone. Especially when he’s not crazy.

I want to ask Rhiannon what to do. But I can imagine what she’d say. Or maybe I’m just projecting my better self onto her. Because I know the answer: Self-preservation isn’t worth it if you can’t live with the self you’re preserving.

I am responsible for his situation. So he’s become my responsibility.

I know this, even as I hate it.

I’m not going to write immediately. I need to give it some thought. I need to help him without confirming anything.

Finally, by last period, I think I have it.

I know who you are. I’ve seen your story on the news. It doesn’t have anything to do with me—you must have made a mistake.

Still, it appears to me that you’re not considering all the possibilities. I’m sure what happened to you was very stressful. But blaming the devil is not the answer.

I send it off quickly before football practice.

I also check for an email from Rhiannon.

Nothing.

The rest of the day is uneventful. And I find myself wondering once again when I started to think my days would contain actual events. Up until now, I have lived for uneventfulness, and have found smaller satisfaction in the art of getting by. I resent that the hours seem boring now, emptier. Going through the motions gives you plenty of time to examine the motions. I used to find this interesting. Now it has taken on the taint of meaninglessness.

I practice football. I get a ride home. I do some homework. I eat some dinner. I watch TV with my family.

This is the trap of having something to live for:

Everything else seems lifeless.

James and I go to bed first. Paul is in the kitchen, talking to our mother about his work schedule for the weekend. James and I don’t say anything as we change into our sleep clothes, as we parade to the bathroom and back.

I get in bed and he turns out the light. I expect to hear him getting into bed next, but instead he hovers in the middle of the room.

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you ask me about what I was up to yesterday?”

I sit up. “I don’t know. You just seemed a little … off.”

“I just thought it was strange. You asking, I mean.”

He heads to his bed now. I hear his weight fall on the mattress.

“So nothing seemed off to you?” I ask, hoping that there will be something—anything—that rises to the surface.

“Not that I can think of. I thought it was pretty funny that Snyder had to end practice so he could go, like, learn how to help his babymama breathe. But I think that was the highlight. It’s just … do I seem off today, too?”

The truth is that I haven’t been paying that much attention, not since breakfast.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I feel fine. I just don’t, you know, want to look like there’s something wrong when there’s nothing wrong.”

“You seem fine,” I assure him.

“Good,” he says, shifting his body, getting into the right position with his pillow.