An hour later, Philip and I walk the side streets of Baraboo and settle down in the grass beside some abandoned railroad tracks. My eyes seem drawn to him, a moth to a flame, and my heart bubbles with laughter and joy. I'm drunk on whatever this is. A brain tumor? A fantasy? Something else?

Our arms almost touch. The smile never seems to leave our faces except for moments where we seem caught up in each other's gaze. I like him. I really like him, and that's scary.

I eye him shyly as I ask the next question. "Do you still live around here or are you just visiting?"

His gaze has that look, that gaze I've only seen in movies. It makes me feel beautiful, attractive, even more confident. He likes me, I think.

"My place is near," he says.

I'm slightly disappointed. I mean, I'm glad he's not visiting from out of state, but it'd be nice if we lived even closer. It's still a bit of a drive.

"What about you?" he says. "What has Alison Halse been doing all these years?"

I hug my knees. "Not much," I say. "Going to school. Living with relatives."

"And how has that been?"

I tilt my head and shrug. "It doesn't feel like home. I mean, I suppose it could be worse. My aunt and uncle divorced five years ago. They have dual custody of their kids, but my aunt has always been my only legal guardian. So, I stay put."

"But you're 18 now," he says. "What are you going to do next?"

I close my eyes. For some reason, it's easier than normal to avoid thoughts of suicide. I only say, "I don't know. I mean, I'm enrolled in a community college next semester. I'm not really excited about the degree I'm going for, but . . . it is what is it. And much of my inheritance is now available this year, so I guess the good news is that I won't be in debt." I put my chin on my knees. "I suppose that's the one benefit I gained from my parents' death."

A cool breeze teases our hair.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says.

I sigh. "It was a long time ago."

He's quiet a moment. "I visit their graves sometimes. I never see anyone else there."

I lean my cheek on my knees and sigh. "Yeah well, when you have an aunt who blames the events on some dark paranormal force, it's kind of hard to visit graves."

He looks at me. "You're here now."

I put my cheek on my knees. "I'm not supposed to be. My aunt would kill me."

"And you live in Madison."

I nod.

He looks forward and seems deep in thought. The air becomes cool.

After a moment of silence, I say, "You have an interesting accent. You can't tell me you were born here."

"I wasn't," he says numbly.

"So where are you from?"

And then he takes my hand, removes it from my leg. I lift my head up and stare at him with an open jaw. I don't resist but feel hyper-aware of the rising and falling of my chest.

"I was born in France," he says, and this thumb rubs the back of my hand. "Lived in Montreal for a while before I found my way down here."

"Wow. Three different countries. Were your parents in the military or something?"

His eyes seem strange, darker, but perhaps that's just the sun playing tricks on my vision. The breeze warms, and my hair flies in my face. He shakes his head and says in a gruff voice, "No."

Still, I feel caught up in his gaze, and then he brushes the hair aside, touching the side of my face. I tremble a little, and he licks his lips. Oh, God. Is he going to kiss me?

"You know," he says, softly. "My place isn't—"

But I bury my face back into my knees. This is too fast! This is way too fast.

He pulls his hand away. "I'm sorry," he says. "Perhaps that was too forward."

A part of me still wants to move forward, to throw caution to the wind, but caution is good. Caution is right. You're not even supposed to be here. You're supposed to be—I lift my head. "What time is it?"

"Uh . . ."

"I should get going," I say. "My aunt's got to be blowing a gasket by now." I get up, and the sky dims.

"Can I see you again?"

"Um. I'd like that," I say. "Can I look you up on Facebook?"

"Wha?"

I blush. "I suppose I could just give you my number." And I dig through my purse for a pen and paper. I find a Walmart receipt and a pen, and then struggle to find a flat surface to write on. Without thinking, I end up using his shoulder.

He looks at me, and briefly, our eyes meet. Then, I'm backing away and handing him the receipt.

He hesitates on taking it.

"Text me or call . . . or call. Whichever." My cheeks burn. A part of me still wants to change my mind and take him up on his offer.

But he's staring at my hand, more specifically at the black ink on the back of my hand. Braydon's number. Oh, God! Please, just take it.

Drops of rain hit my nose and shoulder, and I am vaguely aware that normally this would be triggering the start of an anxiety attack. Thank you, Brain tumor, I guess.

And then Philip reaches toward me, but his hand on my cheek. He stares deeply into my eyes, and subtle pain runs from his fingertips and down my neck. And yet there's something pleasant about. I don't want him to let go. If he leaned in to kiss me or dragged me to the car and drove me anywhere, I wouldn't stop him . . . and that scares me.

A wind blows around us, waving our hair about.

Find me at the lake. The words seem to echo in my mind.

Then he lets go of me and takes the receipt. The wind lightens, though a rumble of thunder roars in the distance.

"You should go," he says.

A dust of rain moistens us. He looks off toward the hills where dark billowing clouds roll over the edge of the horizon.

Somehow, I'm scared. I back away, almost like I want to run. He's dangerous.

But I hesitate. "Do you need a ride?"

"Go," he says without looking at me.

And I don't look back. I run to my aunt's hybrid, take shelter from the rain, and after I turn on the engine, I check for him in the mirror. He's gone.