"What will your contribution be?"

Charlie Dalton woke with a start. He shoved the covers off of himself, breathing deeply. He was drenched in a cold sweat, and felt like screaming. Once again he had awoken to Mr. Keating voice and the image of Neil's lifeless body. He set his feet down on the cold, hard floor. He walked quickly to the window and cracked it slightly. He looked out over the cold, snowy grounds of Hell-ton Academy and tried to regain his composure. For the third night that week Charlie had awaken in a cold sweat, looking around and just expecting to see Neil standing above his bed, calling him to another Dead Poets Society meeting. But Neil was never there. And each time that Charlie awoke he was thrust back in to the pain he felt the first night Mr. Noland had told them that Neil had shot himself in his fathers study. Charlie had only been back at Hell-ton a week, and already he wished that he had remained expelled. But his father didn't even dream of allowing him to stay home. As soon as Charlie arrived home, he had written Welton, insisting that his son had merely been under extreme stress due to the death of his best friend, and that he deserved to be reinstated. Along with a rather large donation to the school library and a written agreement to stay out of trouble, Charlie was back on the train to school within the month. And now, being back at school, walking the same halls and sitting in the same classes and especially the reinstating of the Dead Poets Society had brought back memories that were so painful that it was often hard to breathe. They had started up the meetings again three days after he had been back, but it wasn't the same. The joking manner was gone, and since Cameron had left for a different school and Keating was no longer there as their role model, there was talk of disbanding the Society all together. It didn't help the pain any that each morning Neil was mentioned in the prayers, and that all of the teachers spoke about him about him as a Hellton god. But it did help to be in the company of Todd and Knox and even Pitts and Meeks sometimes, even though they didn't hang out with the group as much.

Neil's death seemed to have a perverse affect on the guys. Instead of drawing them together, as it should have done, each boy felt estranged, different, responsible, and above all ashamed that they hadn't been able to save Neil or see it coming. With the exception of Charlie who was not given the opportunity, each of them felt equally responsible for robbing Hell-ton of one of their best teachers ever. And, out of all of them, Charlie felt the most alone, except, perhaps, for Todd. Charlie had always been the closest to Neil, just as Meeks and Pitts had been. Knox fit in with everyone, and Cameron didn't fit in at all, as far as Charlie was concerned.

That night, as Charlie let his breath fog up the glass, he realized that it had been three months exactly since Neil had shot himself. Glancing at the clock on his bedside table, Charlie realized that it was 3:30 and that he needed to get back to sleep; he was leading prayers tomorrow and he needed to be at least semi-comatose. And so he slipped his feet back below the covers and pulled the homemade quilt up to his chin. As he felt himself drift off in to what was sure to be yet another nightmare, he felt a single tear roll down his cheek. He didn't even have the strength to wipe it off and it lay there like a silent reminder of all the pain that had passed and all the rest that was sure to lie ahead.

Across the hall and two doors down, Knox signed and sealed the letter he had been writing to Chris. As soon as her parents had gotten word of the two of them attending the play together, of what had happened that night at Chet's party, and then of Neil Perry's suicide, they had sent her to a girl's preparatory school on the other side of Maine, almost 300 miles away. The ad promised to write to each other and had so far kept that promise. Realizing what time it was, Knox shut off the light, and careful not to wake Todd, crossed to his dresser and slid the letter in to the top drawer, intending to mail it in the morning. As his hands pushed the top drawer closed, he turned on his heel and then began to hesitate. He felt the urge inside him, like he always did when he was up late and had a bad day. And, these days, every day was a bad day it seemed. Making up his mind, Knox turned again, leaning down and slowly sliding open the bottom drawer. He only opened it half way, knowing that if he opened it anymore it would squeak and wake up Todd. Carefully, he slid out his extra notebooks, his copy of the Bible, and a picture of him and Chris that he wasn't allowed to display, and finally reached the object that he had reached for so many times before.

He sat on his bed and slipped off his slacks and shirt, laying them carefully over the back of his chair. Leaning back in bed, clad only in his boxer shorts, he opened the pages of last years annual, flipping through the tattered pages to one that had been dog-eared repeatedly over the last year and a half. He stared at the picture and smile, slipping his hand below the waist band of his shorts and feeling himself grow excited as he concentrated on the task at hand. The picture was one that he himself had taken, back when he used to be a photo editor for the annual. But he had given that up. This picture had been one of his best. The picture was taken right after Welton won the state crewing championship. The picture featured Charlie Dalton, captain of the team, holding the trophy and smiling madly. His shirt was off and his chest glistened with sweat. His firm, buff abs and chest stood out against his lean waist, and his arms looked toned and firm from years of crewing. His hair was blowing in the wind, and he looked truly happy. As Knox continued to stare at the picture, his mind began to drift from that to all of the showers the boys had taken over the years...to all the Knox had seen...and suddenly Knox wasn't able to take it anymore. He let himself go, and as he came, he sighed deeply and gently set leaned his head against the wall. He was exhausted, as he usually was when things like this took place. And, as usual, he was saddened, knowing that his true fantasies would never come true. And perhaps the worst feeling of all, Knox felt confused. He knew that he liked Chris. In fact, he knew that he loved her. He loved being with her, loved kissing her and making her laugh. And he missed her. But there were times, especially since Neil had killed himself, when he found himself wanting more than anything to just reach out and stroke Charlie's tear-stained cheek, or to just hug him and kiss his forehead and let him know that it would all be ok. He had felt inklings of those feelings before- times when they had been sitting close in the cave and he had wanted to reach out and put his arm around him or when he had wanted to kill all of the girls that Charlie had brought to the cave or talked about from home. What was he supposed to do? Guys had been kicked out of Hell-ton for things like this before, and talk still followed those poor boys. There were still whispers about them in the halls, people still continued to make snide remarks on bathroom walls. Things like this, if found out about, could be the end of your life, for him in more ways than one. And so he dog-eared the page, carefully put everything back in his bottom drawer and, climbing in to bed, drifted off in to a fitful, dreamless sleep full of shirtless Charlie's, laughing Neil's, and whispers that seemed to flow in to every corner of his brain.

Todd Anderson rolled over carefully and shut his eyes. He knew that Knox thought he was asleep. But he didn't sleep now, and so Todd had seen the whole thing, and not for the first time. He didn't care. Knox had his own life and his own feelings, and whatever he did, Todd didn't deserve a say. And he wasn't a nark like Cameron.

Todd looked at the sterile whiteness of his wall, tracing the shadows the moon made through the curtains. Those days, he would have given anything to be bale to sleep like he used to. But, ever since he had found out that he had been asleep when Neil had killed himself, every time he closed his eyes sleep didn't come. It was starting to get to him in more ways than one. Todd's guilt was growing. He knew, deep in the pit of his stomach that if he had been awake that night, if he had only followed Neil or objected more to Mr. Perry, that Neil would be awake and lying in the bed across the room from him. But he wasn't, and Todd couldn't help but blame himself, as much as he told himself that, not only was he not responsible, but that everyone else probably felt the same thing. But it didn't' help. And the longer he stayed awake, the less he slept, the more he envied Neil. The more he wondered about what it would feel like to have a bullet tear through his skin and become lodged in his heart, to feel himself slowly bleed to death. He wondered what was going through Neil's head, whether he had even been a passing thought or if, like most of his life, he had been written off and forgotten completely. Todd drew his arms from under the covers and stared at the faded scars on his upper arms that led to the deep, new cuts toward his wrist. No one knew about his habit, no one asked, and no one suspected that a boy from such a regal family, a boy who had such a good reputation, would ever have a secret like this.

Todd rolled over again, whispering across the room, hoping that Knox hadn't fallen asleep all ready. He wanted to ask who the picture was of, and why he felt so attracted to whoever was in the picture. But, to be honest, all Todd really wanted was to talk- to someone, anyone, about anything. But when he had called Knox's name three times and gotten no answer, Todd faced his wall again, sobbing silently and thinking, not for the first time recently, how he and Neil should have traded places, about how much everyone loved Neil. About how much no one would even care if he was gone.