“Anyone?” Dave scans the group.
I raise my hand again. “How well do you know this park?”
His eyebrows shoot upward, as though taken aback by the question. “Well, I’m the tour guide, aren’t I? It’s my job to know this place. But to answer your question, I practically grew up in these woods. I camped here, hiked here, volunteered to do cleanups here…”
“Do you know every square inch?”
He folds his arms and widens his stance: defense mode. I know it well.
“I’m not even sure I know every square inch of my own apartment,” he says. “Why do you ask? Is there a question I haven’t answered for you today?”
Yes. There is. “Where is the water well located?”
His face furrows. He doesn’t know. “Water well?”
My heart sinks.
I look around at the others to see if any of them might be familiar with the well. “People say it’s hidden under brush and brambles, and that it’s tucked behind a grove of elm trees…”
“Really…” He smirks. “Well, as you can see, these woods are full of brush, brambles, and elms.” He motions all around us. “But I can assure you there are no water wells.”
“That you know of,” I say, correcting him.
“No.” He draws the word out for emphasis. “There are no water wells period. You can check your map.”
“I don’t need to check. I know the map. Every square inch of it. The well isn’t on there. The footbridge isn’t either.”
“I know Hayberry Park,” Dave argues. “It has eight water fountains and two fishing holes, miles of hiking and biking trails, the most species of deer and birds in the New England area—”
“And a water well,” I insist.
“Could it be that you have this park confused with another?”
“I’m not confused.” Part of me wonders if the well had been built just for me. But that doesn’t make sense either—doesn’t explain the overgrowth of brush or the aging of the well bricks.
“Hey, wait,” Dave says. His face brightens, the look of recognition, of puzzle pieces fitting together. “I think I may’ve heard about you. You’ve been on a lot of these walking tours, haven’t you?”
“No. I don’t think so.” My face flashes hot.
“Yes. You have.” He’s smiling now, his suspicions confirmed. “You’re that girl.”
The people in the group are gawking at me now.
“Is she okay?” a female voice asks. Which one of them said it? The lady in the brown coat?
“I’m not,” I say. “That girl,” I mean.
“Your name is Terra, right?” Dave takes a step closer. “You’re Terra, the girl who was on the news?”
“I’m not.” I’m no one. I turn away and keep on walking.
NOW
5
Later, in my room, behind an art desk that’s loaded with the sharpest of tools; beneath a blanket that reminds me of the pink one my mother knitted me; and with all the windows closed, locked, booby-trapped, and duct-taped, I log on to the Jane Anonymous chat site. My chat name, NightTerra, pops up on the screen to announce my attendance.
JA Admin: Welcome, NightTerra. Remember the rules: no judgments, no swearing, no inappropriate remarks. This is a safe space for honesty and support.
Paylee22: Hey, NightTerra! So glad to see you!!!
NightTerra: Is anyone else on here?
Paylee22: Logged on maybe but not chatting. It’s been pretty quiet, so I’m binging my way through Season 3 of Summer’s Story. Have you watched it yet?
NightTerra: No, but I tried those Swiss Rolls you recommended.
Paylee22: And?
NightTerra: So good.
Paylee22: Told you! Sometime, we should go into a private chat room, watch Summer’s Story, and eat Swiss Rolls, so it’ll be like we’re together.
NightTerra: Definitely. :)
NightTerra: Can I ask you something?
Paylee22: Of course. Anything.
NightTerra: Do you think I’m crazy? Like, for real, beyond mentally unstable.
Paylee22: Seriously? Again??? What’s with you and the c-word?
Paylee22: If you were really, truly crazy, you wouldn’t be asking if you’re crazy.
NightTerra: Do you really think that’s true?
Paylee22: I really, really do.
NightTerra: Sometimes I just feel so completely alone, even when others are around, which I know sounds crazy coming from someone who was trapped in a well.
Paylee22: The crazy part is that it doesn’t sound crazy at all, not to someone like me who’s been through something similar. For me, other people make the lonely feeling worse—the fact that I can’t really relate to them, and they don’t relate to me.
Paylee22: Just the other day, with my mom … I was trying to describe what it was like for me, trapped in that shed, not knowing what was going to happen or if I’d ever get out …
Paylee22: I was telling her how thoughts of my little brother Max came up, how I felt like his spirit was with me somehow, in the shed, how I imagined doing card tricks with him … His favorite trick with the Aces and the Queens …
Paylee22: But I couldn’t really share much because my mom started crying as soon as I said Max’s name. So, then I felt bad, like I had to soothe her, and lonely because I had no one to tell those Max memories to.
NightTerra: You’ll always have me.
Paylee22: xoxoxo
Paylee22: I really miss him. His giggly little laugh, his obsession with Polymer clay, all those snails he used to sculpt … He made a DIY video tutorial. Sometimes I watch it just to keep him close.
Paylee22: His heart just wasn’t strong enough for his larger-than-life spirit.
NightTerra: I’m really sorry, Peyton.
NightTerra: Sending you a virtual hug.
Paylee22: Thanks, Terra. What would I do without you? I don’t ever want to know.
Paylee22: Now, back to you. Are you feeling a little less alone and unstable? I hate the c-word, btw. Delete crazy from your vocabulary.
Paylee22: And while I’m prescribing, don’t go surfing online for symptoms. Need I remind you that I’m way better than Dr. Google.
Paylee22: I’m Dr. P.:)
NightTerra: What’s my diagnosis, Dr. P?
Paylee22: Paranoid, with a side of mistrust, a hefty helping of isolation, and a scoop of low self-esteem.
Paylee22: In other words, you’re just like me.
NightTerra: Thank you for being there.
Paylee22: Let’s not leave each other yet. Let’s be
