Clara is startled out of her thoughts of volcano summits and the Earth's rotation around the sun by the sound of Nolan's voice. He has directed a statement of fact toward her. No one has ever done this before. No one has spoken to her. She wants this, of course, but getting what she wants so unexpectedly has left her in a state of shock.

Nolan walks over to the bench and stands in front of her. "How did you know it was my birthday yesterday?" he asks her.

"I can read." She forms the words on her lips.

He nods. "I left my wallet in my room."

Clara nods back at him, before patting the seat next to her. He shifts uncertainly for a moment, and then joins her there. He sits nearby. If they were able to touch, they would be very close to doing so.

"Can anyone else see you?"

"You're the only one, as far as I can tell." Clara's shock has lessened, but she's still nervous. Nolan is talking to her, just like she's a real person. This is a good thing and it will be fine—she has to keep telling herself this.

"What about other—people? People like you, I mean."

Clara shakes her head. "Have you ever known anyone else like me?"

"No."

"Me neither."

Nolan is silent for a moment. Clara turns back to the forest, but she can tell from the corner of her eye that he's still watching her. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Clara, what are you, exactly?"

She lowers her eyes quickly. Angry tears well at their corners. He is only talking to her because she's a curiosity. She doesn't respond to him, which she figures pretty much gives him the answer to his question.

She doesn't know.

#

Nolan's heart falls; this poor girl has been utterly alone her entire existence. How long has she been here? How old is she? How can she live like this? Is she alive? Nolan keeps these questions to himself. He's upset her enough with that last one he so foolishly let slide out of his mouth. Of course she wouldn't understand what she is. She's had no one to tell her. She has no way of knowing.

Clara is clearly upset and it's all his fault. He hates it when girls cry—hates it, ever since he was a tiny child watching his mother's endless weeping.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. I'll go." Nolan gets up from the bench, but Clara stops him. Or tries to. She reaches for his arm, but her hand goes right through him. He turns back to her, touching the spot on his skin where she tried to connect with him.

"It's okay," she tells him soundlessly. "I'm just a little sensitive on that subject. Don't go."

Nolan sits back down, relieved that she wants him to stay.

"I'm not used to this. Talking to someone, I mean." She shifts her eyes to his. "I'm sorry I surprised you yesterday. Twice."

"You didn't mean to."

"No." Until yesterday, Clara was incapable of surprising anyone, wasn't she? It is another newfound ability, like conversing with lonely, depressed boys. Poor Clara, thinks Nolan. One person in the entire world knows that she exists and of all people, it's him.

Clara sits with Nolan for a while. He contemplates what to say next. He should be better at this. He's had a lifetime of conversations. This is Clara's very first one.