I'm soaring on the wings of a crow, clinging tightly to its soft feathers as the wind rushes at my face and through my hair. Through the clouds, it soars, and I feel almost one with it. I am the tiny girl on its back, and I am the bird.

I caw as an enemy bird approaches, and then I dive at breathtaking speed to avoid a full on attack. I have barely a moment to recognize what lies below us until we splash down into water. The crow vanishes, and it is just me, a prisoner to the water, perpetually drowning.

But then a bare-chested Philip swims up to me and takes me into his arms. We kiss, and the pain in my lungs vanish. We sink till my back hits the bottom of the lake. Fish tickle my toes, and light barely reaches my eyes. Far up above me is the surface, a mural of the reality above it. Life above doesn't seem real. It is just me and Philip.

We are not in a lake at all. The mural above us is a piece of fine art pinned to the ceiling. The artwork on the wall are all underwater depictions, but the floor beneath us is still sand. He lies over me, caresses my face, runs his hands through my wet hair.

"Come back to me," he says.

I open my mouth to say yes, but then Philip is suddenly the crow, pinning me down with his sharp hooks. Other birds fly in through unseen windows. They attack each other, screaming horrible noises. Feathers fly everywhere.

I drown in a sea of feathers, happy and content.

"Yes, Philip. I want this."

"It's Alice, right?" Braydon's cousin, Jesse, shouts from across the picnic table.

I startle and release my left arm from the grip of my nails. I turn toward him slightly.

"Um . . . Alison," I say and turn my back toward him again.

The polka music continues to drown out most of the voices here. People dance around the outdoor floor, smiles, and laughter all around. It makes my insides cold. All these people. Why did I come?

Jesse's voice surfaces just barely above the music, repeating my name till he gets my attention again. I barely look his way.

"You were late," he says. "What happened?"

I blush. I'd been crying and hyperventilating? Took about an hour to calm down? Then I had to reapply my makeup to hide my patheticness? By that time, I was already late and had to convince myself that not coming was an act of avoidance that'd make my anxiety worse in the long run? "Uh—I came in from Madison. Weather's been horrible, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," he says. "Sure has. Storms have been nuts."

I smile at him because I don't know what else to say. Then I turn my attention back to the gallop-hopping of mostly old people and children swinging around the dance floor. Everyone's smiling and laughing. I feel slightly dizzy and like I'm edging toward an out-of-body experience. That's where your anxiety gets so intense, you feel disconnected from yourself. You become a self-observer and are amazed your limbs still obey your commands.

I grab my bottle of water and take a quick drink, hoping it'll help. Then, as I lower my bottle from my lips, I notice a figure standing just outside the shelter watching me. His face is unusually thin, his nose long and beak-like. Beyond that, I only notice the strange lightning design on his black Tee. It looks like a bird made of white light.

I notice Jesse is still talking to me. "—student there?"

I turn. "Sorry. What?"

He blinks a few times and frowns.

"I was just explaining how Braydon and I are students at the UW. Nessa starts in the fall. We're here in Salk City for the summer months, but maybe we'd see you around campus."

"Oh."

He stares at me for a while, and finally adds, "Do you go to the UW as well?"

"Um, no. Community college for me." I force a smile and shrug.

He sits back. "Oh. What program are you going for?"

But I've about had it with my anxiety, so I get up. "Um. If you'd excuse me." I speed out of the pavilion, pass through reams of people standing in mud, and take off in a light jog till the noise from the music and crowd feels safely distant.

I stop at an isolated kiosk of local advertisements and lean my forearm and head against it as I try to take a breath.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. No hyperventilation means no fainting.

Surprisingly, it works a little. I open my eyes and see the word 'Baraboo' spelled out just inches from my nose. Then I take a step back and look at the display.

Salk City isn't far from Baraboo. You could ditch this crowd, head to the lake, and maybe he'd be there. Maybe he'd find you there . . . just like he said.

I close my eyes, turn around, lean my head on the display and groan. "Ugh! Stupid crush. Stupid obsession. Let him go al—"

"Um, am I interrupting something?"

I open my eyes. Braydon is standing before me, blushing and giving me an embarrassed sort of smile.

I lift my head. "How long have you been standing there?"

He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks onto his heels. "Long enough."

My cheeks burn. "I wasn't—I wasn't talking about you. My crush—I mean . . ." God! What am I saying?

He keeps rocking and averts his eyes. "It's okay if you like me."

"I don't! I mean! It's nothing personal—"

He chuckles. "Would you calm down? I've known you've liked me since you asked me out."

My neck feels on fire!

"I just—I should probably tell you . . ." He leans forward. "I'm . . . uh . . . I'm kind of gay."

And now a burst of chills rush down my body. Thanks, anxiety. Thanks for still making this about me.

"Oh," I say. God! Have I no words?

He rolls on the balls of his feet again and looks away. "And I guess that makes you number four."

"Number four?"

He meets my eye. "Forth person I've come out to."

I'm having hot and cold flashes now. Anxiety is so much fun!

"Oh," I say. "Thanks for telling me." My voice is so monotone it probably sounds insulting.

He offers his hand. "So? Friends?"

I stare at his open hand. A part of me wants to argue with him. Friends? Alison doesn't have friends! She lives her life like she's perpetually grounded from all forms of social interaction. But another part of me yells that if I don't take his hand, I'm going to look like a homophobe.

I take his hand, and for the first time in God knows how long, a little pocket in my mind puts someone in the category of 'friend.' But, of course, my mind is whirling. I'm already envisioning him rejecting me in the future. "Alison, I'm sorry, but you've forced me to be blunt. You are—"

But, I don't let go. He feels vulnerable. I feel vulnerable.

"Yeah," I say. "Friends. I'd like that."

His smile widens, and in the distance, I notice that strange thin-faced man from earlier watching us. He seems to smile, turns and walks back into the crowd.

Braydon turns his head toward the shelter briefly. "So, I kind of made a song request for you."

"Huh?"

He offers his hand again. "Would you care to dance or . . ."

"Uh . . . I—I—I'm not really—"

"Alison," he says. "I don't bite. Whatever you've heard, I'm a pretty nice guy."

I close my eyes. Don't make it about you, I tell myself.

And so I take Braydon's hand. He pulls me back to the pavilion—to the very middle of the dance floor. And then he's placing my hands over his shoulders and putting his around my waist. I force myself to breathe, then worry if I just blew bad breath his direction. I'm sweating. Did I put deodorant on? I don't remember!

But he doesn't have any adverse reaction. We stand awkwardly, waiting for the song to end. Then there is a little commotion as the band members switch instruments. The band leader pulls out a guitar and then comes up to the mic.

"So, we had a little song request," he says. "So, Alison? This one's for you. 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters.'"

My eyes widen. Did Braydon just announce to everyone here that I'm depressed?

The band leader experiments a little with his guitar, adjusts his strings, apologizes once more and finally starts to play.

No! This needs to stop! Run! Run now!

But I don't. My arms feel heavy and my head fuzzy, but we dance anyway. The band leader then nods when the violinist is supposed to start playing and the whole thing gets worse.

It's not that it's a terrible rendition. It is that the song is too deep, too personal. It highlights the pity Braydon has taken on me. Me—the suicide girl.

"You okay?" Braydon asks.

I nod, but it's a lie.

The only comforting thought is that of Philip, the memory of that fleeting confidence I experienced in his presence. If only that could happen to me now.

I look over Braydon's shoulder to hide the swelling of my eyes, but only meet others gawking at me. And there's that weird thin-faced guy staring at us again.

Braydon is silent for a few more turns. Then, he says, "I'm not going to pretend I know what you're going through. It's not my business, really. But if it helps, my cousins and I have been praying for you."

I suck in my bottom lip and breathe in deeply through my nose.

"I've gone through some rough times of my own," he says and then hesitates briefly. "In fact, my brother—"

But I pull away.

"I'm sorry," I say.

And then I'm running out of the pavilion, dodging and bumping into other dancers, squeezing through picnic tables, and ruining a game of horseshoe.

I head straight for the restrooms, zooming past more people and locking myself into an empty stall. Because I'm not alone in here, I stifle the sound of my crying. It weakens the relief my tears can bring, and my chest vibrates painfully.

Why do my fears have to rule over me like this? Why is it so hard to fake smiles and at least seem friendly? I'm so sick of being tormented. I'm sick of trying to make a normal life for myself when the fear blocks me from it. Even when I force myself through this torture, what is the benefit?

And I think of Philip again. A crazy thought. He cured me if only for a few hours. I don't know how he could have such powers. It's ludicrous to entertain this notion, and yet I cling to it.

Please be real. Please be my way out of this mess. I don't really want to die; I just want the ability to live.

My phone buzzes from my mini backpack purse and startles me from my thoughts. I pull it out, whip a tear from my eye, and read Braydon's text.

Braydon: Are you okay? Where are you? I'm worried.

I respond back with the only socially acceptable answer.

Alison: I'm sick. I'm sorry. Going home.

He accepts the excuse without question, and after I've reapplied makeup to hide the redness around my eyes, I dash over to my car, sit in the driver's seat and think. I'm still tempted to drive out the Devil's Lake, but for what? Do I really think I can find Philip, have time to really socialize and be back to Madison for dinner? Am I even in the emotional state to do this?

I pull up the Devil's Lake website on my phone.

And there, the words 'Stay and Camp!' call out to me. My aunt would never approve, but maybe if—

I pull up my phone contacts and quickly scour through them. There aren't many, and I barely ever use them. Fear wells up in me as my finger hovers over Brianna's name. It holds me back, reminds me that Brianna isn't my friend, that I have no friends, that no one wants me to bother them.

But I shake my head and text her anyway.

Alison: Hey Bri. I was wondering if you'd help me out.