As I walked down the streets, I couldn't help but catch my reflection in the shop windows. I nearly screamed when I saw myself. My hair was still red, but all the gel I had used to spike it before was gone. Nevertheless, my hair still stood on ends, sticking out in tufts, looking cooler than anything I had ever been able to do to it. White and blue paint were still visible in my hair from finger painting the snow, and wherever the blue paint had come from.

My skin was the same, pale with a light tan because of my half Asian mother. But I just looked different. I looked, brighter, if that made any since. My hair was redder, my freckled standing out eve more on my skin, and the paint on my hair and jeans brighter as well. It was my eyes that really freaked me out.

My eyes were yellow.

As yellow as Pitch's are.

It was because of my own eyes I had decided to never sleep again. Pitch would have a field day with them.

Three days past, and I found I didn't have to sleep anyways. I'm not sure if I could, but I certainly knew I wasn't going to. I didn't have to eat either, which was also a plus.

Finding Jamie's house wasn't that hard, the police still had his file out, and the address was pretty close to my apartment actually. What was hard was seeing him moping around his living room, still shaken from what had happened the night before.

I kind of just… slipped into his house. Just opened the door and walked in. His head jerked up, staring at the open door, "Jack?"

He was still talking to Jack Frost. Brilliant.

Jamie sat back down, apparently not seeing Jack Frost, and I snuck up the stairs, peeking into every room until I finally came to one that looked like his. Several pictures covered the walls, for his age, the art was pretty good.

I set the canvas down on his bed. I just couldn't let the kid live thinking someone died because of him. Even if he hadn't been there, I would have eventually seen the Pitch like figure in my painting, and gone into the alley anyways. And there's no guarantee I would have come out.

So I took out black paint and a detail brush from my bag to write my name on the corner. He must have learned my name when they were questioning him. Right?

But the minute I tried to take a brush to the canvas, it just felt wrong. The most disgusting feeling I've ever had. I can't even describe it. It wasn't painful it was just… bad. Brushes were bad!

I dropped the brush, and it fell onto his bed spread, the black paint staining his blanket. I didn't care, I was dead!

So I let instinct take over, and I started to dip my finger into the black paint tube, it felt wrong too. I pulled my hand back, staring down at my fingers, and gasped. Black paint was coming out of my index finger.

I wiped it away on my jeans, and then stared at my finger again, trying to get paint to come out. Come on, black!

Black paint seeped out of my pores, trickling over my index finger. Well this certainly explained the blue paint in my hair. I took in a deep breath, and then took my finger to the canvas, spelling out Callisto. As an after thought, I added Acrylic to the end, and I pulled back to admire my work.

The name had thin letters, much to thin to look like I had made them with my finger. It looked like I had used a detail brush. And the paint dried instantly, it didn't stay wet.

I looked down at my now paint less finger. Green.

Green paint immediately seeped out of my pores, coating my finger. I quickly wiped it away. "Man, that's creepy, and cool at the same time."

Is this what I'm supposed to do? Paint?

Hell, I can do that! But I won't be needing any of this. I set my bag down and pulled the canvases, paint, folding easel, and brushes out, laying them all on Jamie's desk. He should keep practicing art work, he could be a professional artist one day.

I kept my bag, not wanting to lose it, because I've practically lived out of this bag since high school. So I threw my now empty bag over my shoulder, giving one last look around. I left Jamie's house, hoping that when he saw the canvas, he'd believe, somehow, I was alive, despite what the police must have told him.

JAMIE'S POINT OF VIEW:

"Time for bed Jamie." My mom said gently.

"Okay." I whispered, walking up to my room, and then freezing in the doorway. Why was there so much art supplies in my room? I didn't own an easel, or any paints except water color. And I've never painted any kind of canvas.

My gaze went from my desk to my bed. I walked over, picking up an already painted canvas, and nearly screamed. It was Callisto's painting from last night. It was even signed- Wait. She didn't sign it last night, she didn't have time. But who would copy her signature, and then leave all her art stuff in my room?

I ran my thumb over her signature, "Callisto Acrylic?"

Tap, tap, tap!

I jumped, looking over a the window to see Jack sitting there. I rushed over, yanking it open, and he floated inside, landing on my bed, "Hey kid, you holding up alright?"

I gulped, "Uh, yeah. Hey, Jack? If I died… could I come back to life?"

Jack raised an eyebrow, "Uh, well, I died, and I came back, but that doesn't happen to everybody."

"Why did you came back?"

"The man in the moon chose me. We just call him Manny." Jack shrugged.

"Why did he chose you?" I pried. I had to find out why Callisto wasn't dead.

Jack was quiet for a moment, "I died saving my sister. I like to think he chose me because, well, I've always been a guardian. Looking out for kids."

"So, if someone else were to die saving a kid, Manny might chose them?"

Jack stared at me, "Jamie, were is this coming from."

I held up the canvas, "Look."

Jack stared at the painting, eventually reaching over, and taking it from me, holding it up to the light to see it. "Well, what do you think this is?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, "I think she's still alive."

Jack just said, "Hmm."

I balled my hands into fists, "Jack, she died saving me, and Manny chose her!"

Jack laid the painting on my bed, "I'll ask North about it." He picked me up, putting me in bed, "Just get some sleep, okay Jamie? You've been through a lot, and whatever's going on, we'll deal with it."

I sighed, rolling over in bed, "Okay Jack."

WITH JACK:

I flew to the North pole as fast as I could, past Phil, and into North's office. "North!"

He looked up from his desk, "Jack!? Vat is wrong?"

I dropped down, panting for breath, "North, if Manny chose someone else, not to be a guardian, but just a spirit, how would we know?"

North stared at me, "Vell, ve vouldn't. Not at first, but eventually, ve run into zem. Zen, ve tell zem what zey are, and zey go on from zere, trying to figure out vat Manny chose zem for."

WITH CALLISTO:

I stared down at my fingers, then up at the side of the apartment I had tried to paint last night. The crime scene tape had been stripped away, and everything looked fine. But I could still see my blood stains on the concrete.

"Come on." I mumbled, "What am I supposed to do?"

Just relax. It's a canvas, figure out what it want's to be painted. I tell myself. I closed my eyes, trying to picture what would look good on this wall.

The moment the image popped into my head, an instinct took over. I saw all the colors I needed, I saw where they needed to be, where to start, what to feel. Without even thinking about it, different shades of blue came out of my fingers, and I set to work.

I hadn't finger painted in awhile, but I quickly remembered how fun it was! I could mix colors easily, blend them exactly how I wanted. All the blues, and grays, and greens merged together, while staying completely apart.

I had finished what I needed to do eye level, but getting up top was going to be hard. Last time I checked, people didn't really leave ladders laying around. Just reach up.

I did, and the minute I leaned upwards, I started floating!

I gasped, wobbling around in the air, I was flying! I could fly! Picture where you want to go.

I closed my eyes, thinking about the top of the wall. I wanted to start drawing the sea foam. I was instantly floating there, not very fast, but fast enough. I stretched out my fingers, using my new found flying to cover the whole wall in my finger paints.

Before long, I was done, and I stepped back to admire my work.

I ha painted ocean waves, crashing one right after the other, foaming and churning to the point where it nearly looked real. It was the best artwork I've ever done.

Seagulls drifted at the top, and there were darker spots in the waves that could be the shadows of fish.

I sat there, staring at my painting. This is what I'm supposed to do? I guess it's not so bad, I don't have to sleep so there's no more Pitch, and I get to paint forever! It's great, it really is. But what's the point in it?