Guest: Oh, but I've always been a sucker for some decent tension. Lol.

Author's Note: I apologize if any of the fonts appear different than the others. Word crashed on me, and I was forced to make edits through the site.

I kind of figured that this girl was similar to night and day, the way she can transform from semi-compassionate and slightly vulnerable into a psycho hose beast within the blink of an eye. But this, this is something else completely. Polar opposite from anything I've ever experienced.

So, in hopes of weathering the emotional storm that's become of my acquaintanceship with Paige, I abandon BHB and make a beeline back to where we came from. She could be anywhere within the building, and I'm determined to find her. Because tormenting a person is one thing, but openly giving them the one thing they've been seeking out with twisted intentions of snatching it away is an entirely different ball game. A game that I'm afraid of being far too ill equipped to play.

Surely enough, Paige is stationed in one of the facility's many narrow hallways, chatting away with a girl I've never seen before. Their expressions read a conversation of deep matter, so I don't interrupt. Well, I hold my tongue up until ten minutes have passed and the chatter hasn't dwindled in the least.

Physically feeling my face twist into one of discernment, I march forward and approach the pair, earning equal eye-cutting glares of agitation. "We need to talk," I mutter to Paige, who huffs before giving the mysterious other a knowing nod.

"To what do I owe this surprise?" she asks, shifting all of her weight up against the nearest wall.

"It was you, wasn't it?" I immediately return, far more comfortable now that the other girl has disappeared. Paige's silence serves as answer enough. And when her mouth goes to form a reply, I say, "Of course it was."

"You don't sound particularly enthused with this golden opportunity I've delivered," she breathes, rolling her eyes. Then, in one fluid motion, she uprights and embarks in a mad dash down the hallway. I follow with enough verve to hear the tail end of, "Figured this is what you wanted. Christ. Strings had to be pulled, Fields."

Rounding a corner at her side, I say, "With all due respect, I'm having a difficult time seeing this as such. I haven't practiced in ages."

"Just the other day, remember? Your laps were fine," she grumbles.

Before or after the "insightful" experience that just so happened to come in the form of my almost drowning? I think. We're now barreling ahead at full speed, and I have to tug at her right arm to sneak another word in. "Paige."

Rolling her eyes again, Paige throws her head back, propping it against a door. An audible groan follows. "Look, one of my swimmers was recently busted stealing canned corn from the cafeteria. Lame, I know. But now we're a swimmer down and quite frankly, I'm sick of losing," she says in one breath. "So are you in or are you out? Do you—oh, what was it?—have my back or not?"

"I don't know," I offer, suddenly feeling ashamed for making such an empty promise. In my defense, though, a simple heads up would've left little room for disappointment. But it's becoming increasingly clear that "simple" isn't in Paige's vocabulary. She is far too intricate for simplicity.

"Figures," she gripes, uprighting once more. "Can't count on anyone these days." Paige then rolls her eyes in a last, most fervent way of finality, turns on a heel, and begins walking away.

Is this what's becoming of the two of us? Arguments filled with crisp one-liners and hefty groans. Don't forget the chasing, either. Though this time I refrain from following. Instead, I cross my arms, and in a quick decision call out to the dwindling image, "Say it, then." Paige stops and turns, cocking her eyebrow. "Say that you need my help, and you've got it."

A hearty laugh ripples through the hallway. My stance is returned with one of similar fashion. Crossed arms. Tall stature. Chest poked out. "That's not how this works."

"The way I see it, you haven't got much choice as far as this is concerned," I say.

The sternness is met with equal resilience. An expression that reeks of stubbornness. Within a handful of seconds, the façade falters. Barely, but it quickly flips Paige's scowl into a look of semi-disbelief. The compromising kind. Shaking her head and eventually settling both eyes on mine, Paige mutters through half gritted teeth, "I need your help, Fields." I let the words linger in the air for a moment. Bask in them, if you will. Paige, however, is having no such nonsense. "Well? Are you going to make me get down on one knee or what?"

Playfully digging into my ear, I say, "There must still be water stuck in there. You'll have to repeat."

"Christ," she spits. "We need your help."

"Who?"

"We— I need your help."

"A bit louder, please."

"FOR THE ABSOLUTE LOVE OF GOD, I AM IN DESPERATE NEED OF EMILY FIELDS'S HELP. WITHOUT IT, I VERY WELL MAY CEASE TO CARRY ON IN THIS WORLD."

Two passersby stop in their tracks, looking suspiciously at a red-faced Paige.

I smile, acknowledging this as merely a small battle in comparison to the war that lies ahead. But damn, does it feel good. Shrugging, I say, "One race. Relay. No singles."

She nods, and the smirk that follows catches me off guard. "Perfect," she says, beginning down the hallway a final time. And before rounding the corner, Paige looks back and points, muttering out, "Because you're pulling anchor."

The remnants of a moral victory still burning bright, I catch BHB at dinner, where he envelopes himself in my account of recent events. "You've accomplished the impossible," he says, giggling. And then, shielding a hand over his mouth, BHB says in a robot-like tone, "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

We both laugh at this.

"Hopefully the sting won't be too fresh come tomorrow," I joke, poking my fork at a mound of red and beige that's supposed to pass for spaghetti.

With a mouthful, BHB shrugs. "If you're referring to her control-every-aspect-of-everything nature, I don't mind it so much. I think it's kind of hot, her yelling at us and what not." And when I shudder, he teases, "What? Bossy's a good look on some people."

I quickly decide that Paige certainly does not fit the bill for "hot" bossy people. But it's never really been my deal. In fact, a generally laid back vibe is what was so attractive about Maya when we dated. How she just rolled with the punches. Then again, a free spirit also sent her off on an adventure to God knows where without so much as a phone call. Needless to say, that relationship died shortly after it began.

"Anyway," BHB says, breaking my train of nostalgic thought. "I've got a suit and cap for you. Where do they need to be dropped off?"

Common room couch, I think. Right next to the rest of my stuff. Hard to miss, really. It's the massive piece of raggedy furniture that smells like refried beans, stale cigarettes, and pee. "Room one seventy-eight," I say, referencing Paige's room. My former room. My soon to be room again. Well, maybe.

BHB shoots a quizzical look when I stand up. As if he's mulling over the words and they just don't add up. I address his stupor with a confused glance of my own, to which he responds, "First floor's for the mental patients. I just didn't realize you were—you know."

"I'm not?" I say, not feeling so much as offended as I am defensive on Paige's behalf. Then again, hadn't I done the same? Assume, assume, assume. But now, my curiosity is somewhat piqued. Is Paige secretly an ax murderer? Do little voices compel her to do heinous acts? With this in mind, I say, "They were out of rooms upstairs. But—are we talking, like, microwave-your-pet-hamster mental? Or more of an 'I see dead people' loony?"

"If only," he jokes. "More of the depressed types. Self-harmers. Things of that nature."

These startling new revelations are enough to send my mind reeling, and I soon bid BHB adieu, wanting to squeeze in some practice before tomorrow. To try and forget the past thirty seconds altogether. That is, until I'm off and digging through my bag, searching for apt swimwear. The picture that Mom and Dad left the other day—one of them together—is gone. Vanished in thin air. I tear through the duffel bag multiple times, each producing the same results. A massive pile of nothing.

A pang of anxiety instantly hits my chest. Someone must have rummaged through my things. Stolen the keepsake. And even if I had the slightest idea of where to begin looking, of who to accuse first, it would only stir up more trouble. Have yet another person sent off into the Place of No One's Mentioning. Force pair after pair of eyes to bitterly cut my way. Again.

I shake my head to clear the thoughts, swallowing back the knot that quickly forms in my throat.

The morning of our meet, I'm awoken to the sounds of scuffling feet. The sun has yet to rise, and I fight the urge to fall back asleep, considering that BHB now enters my makeshift domain. A towel is slung over his shoulder, bag strap dangling loosely from his arm.

I take this as my cue and quickly dress in the room's darkest corner. Outside, twelve or so boys and girls file toward a small shuttle bus. Following, I nestle into the front-most seat, taking a moment to survey the team.

We're an odd bunch. A slew of sleep-deprived teenagers that couldn't possess the slightest fraction of athleticism, even if we tried. A driver eventually shows, buckling into his seat and cranking the engine once, twice, before it finally takes. Paige is the last to arrive. And when she steps on, she pauses and gives an almost disappointed shake of her head before sliding in next to me.

Considering that I now have zero positive presence from my parents on the morning of a meet, music will have to suffice. And it does, up until an ear bud is gently tugged from my left ear. "You seem out of it," Paige mumbles sleepily. "Nerves?"

Dad's voice instantly rings through my mind. His typical spiel about nervousness being the only true sign of readiness. "If you're not on edge, then you're stagnant. When you're stagnant, you're jaded. And when you're jaded, you lose," to be specific. Frankly, I would kill for this pit in my stomach to be from just nerves. Since when has anything been just one thing or another, though? No, for now, with the pre-meet routine fully underway, and with my parents being so far away while I'm here, to possess jitters would be too selfish. Too typical. Like I'm going behind their backs, swimming this weekend.

Not like it's been my idea. I'm simply helping a peer, right? Wrong. Because somewhere, deep down, I'm a bit relieved by Paige's going behind my back. And it's this relief that kills me. The guilt of betrayal that pursuing normalcy in such a not normal situation can produce.

So, to Paige, I merely shake my head.

"I swear, Fields," she says, her voice growing louder with each syllable, "if you're getting cold feet on me, we're going to have a problem. I'm sure you've noticed, but Bobby's head is far too big to function—SORRY, BOBBY—let alone run the anchor spot."

"It's no issue at all," I breathe, annoyed with her pestering at such an ungodly hour. And when she frowns, I insist, "Really."

Paige retrieves a pair of headphones and situates them on her ears before sighing, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

We arrive within the hour, and the familiar act of marching into an opponent's gym is enough to kick my drive back into place. I change in front of the locker nearest Paige's, sticking to ritual and not removing my ear buds all the while.

Over the next little while, nobody from our team wins. Poor BHB comes in dead last in his race. A short, disproportioned girl almost squeaks ahead in hers. The relay is next, and BHB, Paige, a lanky boy, and I gather next to the platform. I halfheartedly expect some sort of speech from Paige. Something motivational. Imagine my surprise when nothing of the sort comes.

The familiar sound of a starting whistle rattles throughout the room. BHB is first to take off, diving from the platform with as much grace as Hanna fiddling around with Spencer's field hockey gear. He swims, flips, and propels forward. After four laps, the lanky guy follows suit. Swim, flip, propel.

I soak in the sounds of cupped palms against water. Legs paddling up and down. Extending in and out. Normalcy. In time enough, Paige is crouched atop the platform, hands bracing against the front, legs semi-bent and at the ready. And in a split second, she's flattened in the air, eventually breaking the water's seal. It's fluid. Peaceful, almost.

When my turn comes, all thinking dissipates. I fall into a trance. Then I'm falling through the air as well, a rush of coolness swallowing me whole. My body works furiously against the pool, as the three before did. Swim, flip, propel. Pump, gasp for air, and pump again. Normalcy.

The only prevalent thought is that of counting laps. And when the final arrives, I begin working overtime. Pump, gasp for air, pump.

I'm panting heavily at lap's end, the absence of physical activity undoubtedly broadcasted across my beat-red face. But this isn't of concern, it seems. My struggle for steady breathing doesn't register with the three confused looks I now receive. Did I do that bad?

I look around, only to find the other swimmers still pumping. Still gasping for air. Still returning to the motion. "Damn," BHB says in awe, kneeling down at the pool's edge. It's another ten second of swim, flip, propelling before the other swimmers come to a stop.

And then the official comes to my side, blowing his whistle and raising a hand. The crowd claps, their dissatisfied murmurs coming to a hush.

"I'll be damned," Paige says once we're settling back onto the bus. "You actually came through."

We both tiredly sink backward into the uncomfortable half-leather seat. Even though I didn't contribute much to today's cause, my muscles are completely shot. I absently toy with the simple yet meaningful pendant that hangs around my neck before saying, "I'm a woman of my word, McCullers."

Paige barely cracks a smile as her head falls heavy against the small inside window. And by the time we return to Piney Groves, I've caught the better part of an early afternoon nap. Everyone is clearing off as Dr. Evans approaches the bus and begins congratulating their efforts. I try standing, only to be held in place by a firm hand to my wrist. The doctor's eyes then cut inside as she ascends the small flight of stairs, to which Paige promptly explains, "We're going to visit Gram."

"It's far too late for that. Tomorrow, maybe," Dr. Evans says, shaking her head.

More insistently, the girl next to me chimes, "Nope. Today. I need to go. Just think of it as a preemptive medical furlough."

"Medical?" the older woman asks. "What are you—"

"Because your complete and utter lack of faith is giving me heartburn, Doc. And if this persists, I'm going to keel over. Is that what you want? Do you want me to die?" I have to stifle a laugh at the squeakiness Paige's voice takes on when she's being sarcastic. "Oh," she begins, "and Fields is coming with."

I cock an unknowing eyebrow to Dr. Evans, assuring that this scheme has been far from premeditated. On my part, at least. She then huffs and shakes her head in defeat, returning to Paige before saying, "Three hours. No more."

"Four," Paige says.

"Three."

"Three and a half?"

"Paige," I plea.

"Emily."

"Paige," Dr. Evans repeats.

"Tabitha," the girl deadpans. "We've worked hard today, and deserve some sort of reward." She makes it a point to flash the medal.

Groaning a final time, Dr. Evans ends the exchange with, "Just be back by dinner, okay?"

When it's just the three of us remaining—Paige, myself, and the man who's been toting our team all over town and acted as our interim coach earlier—seconds linger before Paige points ahead and says, "Drive." He hesitates, though. As if silently refusing to proceed will somehow hinder the girl's spirit. It doesn't. Because, in her all-seeing and hearing fashion, she says, "You know, 'Coach', the only thing worse than banging on a bus where innocent teenagers frequently sit is the fact that it wasn't your wife you were flailing on top of. Seriously, it was traumatizing, catching you and Not Your Wife doing the deed. And I'm convinced that you owe me for my gracious silence. Now drive, please."

The engine then slowly evolves from a grumble into a roar, and as a petrified look creeps across my features, Paige clarifies with a point of her thumb. "Third row from the back." We both chuckle.

No one speaks, mind Paige's occasional instruction of where to turn. And after a much longer drive, our bus pulls into the parking lot of a small, single story building. Just outside of the front doors, she turns and clearly instructs, "You'll want to keep close. It's dinnertime here and things manage to get a bit hectic."

I don't mention that three o'clock in the afternoon is awfully early to be eating dinner until we're consumed by a sea of slowly moving gray and white air. Actually, the frail bodies swallow me whole. Paige maneuvers the mass with ease. And she's out of sight in mere seconds, her head that stands tall against the rest disappearing in thin air.

Eventually, though, she appears around a corner. Standing off to the side, smiling grimly. "Closer than that, Fields," she murmurs before grabbing hold of my hand, but not in the interlocked finger kind of way. Instead, her palm coaxes mine along in the warm way that a mother leading her child across the street might do.

We walk, turn, and walk some more before slowing into an open room where old people sit patiently as younger orderlies bring plates to each individual. Paige's eyes scan the area, nodding as she spots a destination, and pulls me along once more.

In a corner rocking chair, stationed in front of a massive checkerboard, sits a petite woman with curly brown hair. Her eyes remain trained ahead as she bites her lip, eventually reaching out with shaky fingers and moving a circular black piece forward. After another move of the same, she cackles. "Well, I do believe that makes win number twenty-seven. Or loss, depending on whether or not you're in my chair."

The old man across meets her extended palm with a cup of dark brown pudding, which she aptly throws back at him, thumping the man squarely in between his eyes. "Vanilla, Walter. I said vanilla."

As I begin mentally preparing for World War Three, a battle that will be fought by way of pudding cups, Paige swoops to the man's defense. She kneels down, picking up the object, and sends him off with a smile and hushed "I'm sorry."

"Still the ever charitable granddaughter of mine, I see," Rocking Chair Lady gripes, not once peeling her eyes away from the checkerboard.

"Still old, I see," Paige returns.

The mood immediately shifts as RCL looks up, her scowl contorting into a grin of surprise. Paige assists her in the struggle to stand, even as the woman completely bypasses her granddaughter's outstretched arms. Instead, I'm wrapped into a vice grip of a hug. Eyeing me up and down, she wastes no time in saying, "You're a lot prettier than Paige's last girlfriend. Oh, what was her name?"

"Shana, Gram," Paige says, pulling a third chair up to the table. "Her name was Shana. And this is Emily. She's just a friend from school."

"So I'm a friend now," I mumble, earning a proud twist of wrinkly skin.

I awkwardly take a seat when this Gram character finally hugs Paige, gaze immediately shifting to the girl's forearm, where her sleeve is now being pulled up. Wrinkled fingers slowly rub over the area, a look of concern splayed out over their owner's face. "What did I tell you about those sticker bushes, dear? They'll get you every time. I've got a right mind to tell Nickie not to let you out of the house alone if you can't be careful. And speaking of the boy, why hasn't he come to visit me?"

Her topics jump all over the place, and I'm struggling to keep up. Paige is obviously far more seasoned, for she simply breathes, "Dad's just busy. He'll be by soon enough."

I'm not sure why, but this is precisely the moment in which I tune out their conversation entirely. The occasional tidbit about school or swimming or Paige's mother comes into play, but I don't dwell on analyzing Paige's intricate web of seemingly rehearsed lies. I'm too busy thinking of the other night. "He's just busy," she said. Her face dropped at the testimony. And here she sits, expression dancing the thin line between sadness and joy. Between tolerance and contentment. Accepting things as they come and enjoying the hand she's been dealt, for a change.

An hour passes. Then two. I occasionally smile or nod in agreement, but that's all. The rest of my time is spent watching. Intently scrutinizing. Realizing that Paige is like a puzzle that needs piecing together. The only issue being that I've been given a handful of materials and have absolutely no clue as to what the finished picture should look like.

Still, though, being here, surrounded by walking corpses and watching as Paige interacts with her ostensibly tough-as-nails grandmother; all of it makes her appear heartbreakingly human. Fragile. Tender, almost.

The visit comes to an end when Gram finally hugs us both again, says that she loves Paige and wouldn't mind seeing me a second time, and mutters, "I'm proud of you, child. Keep up the good work and give your father a hug from me." Cue Paige's painful, forced smile.

On the bus, there's an obvious shift in the air. Neither of us says anything as we rest our heads on our respective areas. At some point, though, the overwhelming urge to cry hits me. Out of fucking nowhere. Today's been great, so why do I suddenly feel so terrible? How can it be that just when things are beginning to look up, I tag along with Paige, sending my heart and mind into a rapid descent downward?

Call it misplaced guilt. Call it pity. Call it whatever the hell you please. Because whatever "it" is, I'm forced to reach out for something to take hold of. Like a child afraid of the dark, or spooked by a thunderstorm. Paige's arm is the first thing that falls under my hand. She tenses for a moment, but eventually relaxes under the grip. And then we're both just sitting here, silently communicating. Offering condolences to the other by way of the occasional flex or off kilter breath.

And this continues as such, until I barely turn my head and look down to the area that falls under my touch. "One too many sticker bushes, huh?"

"Yeah," she breathes, voice slightly catching at the word. Paige refuses to meet my eye as she then mumbles, "Something like that."