Plamin24: Well, I certainly appreciate that. Hope this is soon enough.

ponderhouse: Haha. I certainly appreciate that, and thank you for taking the time to read and review.

Guest: Yes, yes. Hooray for updates. And I thank you for such kind words.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of its characters.

"Operation Destroy Calley is officially back and underway," Paige announces the next morning at breakfast. She digs into her pocket and retrieves a folded piece of paper. I immediately recognize it as one of her infamous lists. "Considering that Bitchface involved the parentals, the game's changed, kiddos. This means that we have to adapt as well."

With a mouthful of bran cereal, BHB asks, "Like do more pushups?"

"No," Paige dismisses, face twisting into the most grimacing expression. "Seriously, are you even trying?"

"Sit-ups?" he playfully asks, cocking an eye at me.

She throws her pen, hitting him square across the forehead. "Intel, dumbass. Top secret mission type shit. Stuff that makes the CIA look like child's play." BHB nods understandingly.

I raise my hand because Paige strikes me as the hand-raising type. "Call me crazy, but I kind of thought that the pranks were a thing of the past."

Paige promptly shakes her head. "Firstly, once the mom and dads are involved, there's no turning back. It was quite the low blow.

"And secondly, pranks are for children. This is war," BHB finishes.

My roommate seems impressed. "Point, Bobby."

"Aren't you worried about jeopardizing your scholarship?" I ask, attempting to establish legitimate concern for topics of actual importance.

"Negative twelve-thousand, Fields." Looking to BHB, she asks, "Do you think she actually hears the things that she says? Or is it the Charlie Brown effect? Wah. Wah. Wah." He snickers. The bell then rings and we begin collecting our trays. Class is next. "I'll do some more brainstorming throughout the day," Paige explains. "We'll discuss the plans this evening."

She must really be working at the whole "brainstorming" thing, for there isn't a single disruption during calculus or history. Odd, though, how I'm equally disturbed by Paige's trouble-inducing schemes and the quiet moments of aversion towards them. Maybe I'm the troubled one. Maybe I've gone off the deep end. Cause of psychosis—Paige.

Could this be another test? After all, Paige is all for the damn things. She passes them with flying colors during class and manages to administer them in her spare time. For insight's sake, of course.

I opt for busying myself in hopes of fending off the increasing paranoia of what lies ahead. Tidy up the room. Take a lap or two around the building. Hell, I even check in with a relatively absent Dr. Evans and Angie just to "catch up."

The inevitable eventually comes around dinner time, though, where Paige and BHB wait for me at our usual table. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I walk slowly.

"Today's menu: justice," Paige proclaims when I finally take a seat. She holds up a sheet of paper that's littered with Xs and Ox and a multitude of sloppily written lines that squiggle from end to end. It's like Morse code's hellion brother that no one brings up at family reunions because he decided to get tattooed, drop out of college, and start a band.

I mindlessly skim the paper, but decide to hand it back with enough apathy so Paige knows how utterly disinterested I am in getting back at anyone. If she recognizes the indifference, she doesn't acknowledge it. "So here's what I'm thinking: Fields is going on a secret mission upstairs to gather information on who we're dealing with. Bob, you're with me. We've got some kinks to work out."

"Sweet balls," he says.

"Not," I interject. "I'll play along with this charade, but there's no chance in hell that I'm going snooping. I refuse to."

"Fields needs convincing. Imagine that," Paige breathes in BHB's direction. She then stands, pulling him by the shirt, and leads their pair over and out of the cafeteria.

I don't see either of them well into the evening. Normally, Paige returns to the room rather early to do whatever it is that she does. But it's empty. So I watch some television in the common room, waiting for one or the other to show. Hours drone on. Unfamiliar faces come and go. I even try striking simple conversation with the girl who's been sitting next to me for some time, but she's clearly having none of my small talk.

According to my alarm clock, it's roughly three o'clock in the morning when the door handle finally jiggles. I've been lying on my back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling up until now. Waiting for Paige. Waiting for a sign that she's still alive. She is. Very much so. Especially when the room's door is blasted open, my roommate's teetering body illuminated by the inlet of light.

Like a disgruntled parent catching their child sneak home at an ungodly hour, I click the lamp on. Paige immediately shields her eyes. "In Soviet Russia, lamp turns you on," she says, giggling.

"Where have you been?" I ask as the girl propels face-first onto the empty side of my bed. She proceeds to point a finger back toward the hallway. "Have you—" I begin asking, but cut short due to the protruding bulge of her back pants' pocket. Upon further inspection, it's a pint-sized plastic bottle that I assume was once filled with clear liquid. It's almost gone. And it quickly becomes obvious that the infamous sniff test isn't necessary to see what I'm up against. "Seriously?"

"Really, really," she says, burping. Loudly.

Swell. Now I'm in a position of trying to determine how Paige should be treated for the next couple of hours. A hands-off approach, perhaps? Is she an angry drunk? Sad? Touchy? I've seen each of the three archetypes from Aria, Spencer, and Hanna. And sometimes, if I'm really unlucky, they combine into one.

Paige doesn't move. Even when I poke her. She does burp again before asking, "Does it feel like the rest of the world is asleep to you?"

What? "It feels like that's where we should," I say. "Snoozing."

"Can't."

"Yeah, you can."

"Got too much going on," she says, tapping a finger at her temple.

This is quite the predicament I'm currently in. Why? Because tomorrow is a special day at Piney Groves. Consequently, having a name that pertains especially to trees means that there need to be actual trees. So, once every year, the patients and counselors work in tandem on a community project. We're, as you've probably guessed, planting trees. There's some bigger picture type message about posterity and all of that crap, but it ultimately means that we have an early morning ahead of us. A full day of work. Work done best when not done on a hangover. So I have to ask, "Are you going to wake up on time?"

"Yes, dear," she mumbles, lifting her head and grinning.

"Oh, so we've reached that point?" I tease, slightly thrown by the playful nature of her tone. While it's tenfold in comparison to being constantly referred to as "dumbass", I have to admit that the term of endearment is a little mushy for Paige.

She must sense this, because she buries her face in both hands and laughs hysterically. Not a sad drunk. Not an angry drunk. Just giggly. And I laugh, too. Well, as much as one can laugh while being climbed over. Because suddenly, Paige's left leg is bent and draped over my right hip. Then both open palms are placed on either side of my head. "I would've said 'Yes, Mother'," she begins, taking the moment to burp and blow in the opposite direction, "but it would make what I'm about to do a wee bit awkward."

"And what might that be?" I ask too suspiciously, double-checking to make sure that she isn't currently brandishing something that could be used a weapon.

Paige laughs again, removing her glasses and dropping them on the nightstand. "Protecting a valuable, valuable piece of hardware?" she jokes, leaning towards me a bit closer. "And administering so much-needed convincing."

"Woah, woah," I say upon realizing her intentions. "This, uhh—this kind of persuasion is bordering on the stuff that's strictly off limits."

She merely shrugs. "Desperate times."

In a last ditch effort, I say, "You're drunk."

"And you're hot."

"Food is hot and women are not," I recite, mimicking BHB's little brother.

She grins. Good. Keep her busy. Distract her.

She lowers her body.

There is currently no room for the Holy Spirit in between our faces.

Not this kind of "busy."

"Is this what they're considering modern-day romance?" I ask.

"Not even the half of it," she chuckles. "Scout's honor."

"Scout?"

"I'll have to show you the uniform sometime," she says proudly.

Okay, so this is kind of hot. The kind of "hot" that I shouldn't be affiliated with. The kind that I've always been a sucker for. And when she bites her lip, I cower, saying, "Yeah, that'd be cool."

"Yeah?" she asks, head dipping before her eyes return to meet mine.

"Yeah," I say.

Seconds pass.

Everything freezes when her lips first touch mine. Remember the cloud that I used to talk about? The one I was constantly chasing? Well, it's here. And God, does it feel good.

I should be stopping this, but I'm not.

We linger in the moment—I on my back, her settled atop the lower part of my stomach—silently daring the other to move. Mouths tenderly working in tandem. At first, it's slow. Gentle and methodical. Like two people practicing for the very first time. Be gentle. Not too hard. Slower. Now speed it up. This would be an entirely different story if the curvature of our lips didn't fit so perfectly together.

Truthfully, I'm not fully aware of what's going on until Paige whimpers when my teeth accidently graze her lip. And only when a hand softly brushes against the side of my neck do I move. Instinctively, of course. Without so much as a single rational thought. As I'm reaching down and tugging on the back of her thighs, Paige is smiling into our next kiss.

She keeps smiling well up until the moment I try pulling away for breath. Breathing is not an option, it seems. Not if the breath isn't coming directly from her. So says the tongue that hooks onto my teeth, inching me back to the start.

This goes on for the better part of a half-hour. In progressive steps. Quietly and completely separated from the outside world. Still.

This goes on until I foolishly dare to try snaking a hand underneath her shirt.

This goes on until Paige leans up, smirks, places a gentle kiss on one of my hands, and rolls over onto her back.

And then I'm a bumbling, confused, flustered baby that just so happens to be trapped in a semi-adult body. "Uhh," I mumble. "Umm?"

Paige snickers. "Being on the team doesn't guarantee you'll score, Fields," she says. "Now hit the light and go to sleep. We have a fun day ahead of us."

Tremendously bothered, I say, "Just so the record's straight, I'm thoroughly unconvinced at the moment."

She grunts and lifts up, leaning over me to pull the lamp's chain. Then, in one fluid motion, she burrows deep into the covers, turns her back to me, and breathes, "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

At some point in the early hours of morning, my eyes pop open without warning. Without cause. Outside, the sun has yet to rise. Inside, Paige has yet to as well. Instead, her arm is snaked around my stomach, her front pressed firmly into my back. Steady breaths trickle onto the back of my neck.

I could get up and move. I should get up and move. But I don't.

My second time in waking, Paige is no longer asleep. She is up and about, rinsing her face in our private bathroom's sink. And when she wanders back into the room, a hand towel pressed to her cheeks, I grumble, "I swear that you're a robot. Running on batteries, probably."

Cracking a smile, she points at her chest before saying, "Double-As." The towel is then popped against my foot, sending a stinging sensation rippling up my leg. "Up, up, up."

Everyone eats breakfast and groggily gathers in the main foyer. Paige seems to be the only one in high spirits. Odd, how some people are invincible to hangovers. Considering last night, I'm surprised that she's even functioning.

Groups are formed and relegated to today's project. Some are on tool-gathering detail. Others are assigned to transporting baby trees from a truck and out to the Piney Groves back lot. As for Paige, BHB, and myself, we're in charge of seeing to it that holes are properly prepared for said baby trees. "As many as you can, as quickly as you can," Dr. Evans instructs, doling out three pairs of gloves.

Paige salutes at the doctor for good sarcastic measure.

The earlier hours aren't nearly as excruciating due to a prevalent lack of sunlight. As the day progresses, though, and fresh calluses are forming on every inch of my palms, the heat comes into full effect. Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my eyes. Shirt sticks to back. Dirt stains face. It's like Haiti, only this kind of work doesn't spice up college applications.

BHB works meticulously. He accounts for at least half of our progress. Paige, on the other hand, makes it her mission to do as little as possible. For instance, she'll stop every minute or so, close her eyes, inhale deeply, and say, "Trees." If a new idea pops into that chaotic mind of hers, she'll drop her shovel and announce, "TEAM HUDDLE," to which BHB and I gather around to dismiss a totally outrageous suggestion. It's not long before we begin ignoring her altogether.

Does this thwart her aversion to productivity in the least? Of course not. If anything, it fuels her fire. Because at some point in the beginning half of our day, she delegates herself as supervisor-of-things-that-needn't-be-supervised. Namely, she walks around ordering the other patients to do things that they're already doing.

Five hours and eighty-four small holes later, the other groups are bringing the last of trees that need be planted. Paige is currently pitching yet another idea that involves shaving Calley's eyebrows off. And as one boy approaches our trio, plants in both hands, he interrupts her by asking, "How much longer are you going to take? We're ready to be finished."

"Depends," Paige quickly chimes, stabbing the shovel's end into the dirt below. She wipes both hands together before asking, "How tall are you?" The look of bewilderment that spreads across this guy's face is enough to elicit a chuckle out of both BHB and me. Paige proceeds in saying, "So you'll have to excuse us. We're just HAVING A VERY IMPORTANT CONVERSATION WHILST DIGGING HOLES."

We, in fact, do not further converse on account of the angry-looking mob that fast approaches. Their impatience hastens our work until a break is announced. I take the down moment to retrieve my bag and pull BHB around the building's corner while everyone is distracted. Maybe he can shed some light on last night.

I retrieve the bottle from my pack, handing it to BHB. Asking no questions, his face lights up as he untwists the cap. "Looks like Christmas came early." The boy takes a long swig, face contorting as he finishes, looks to me, and says, "Oooh, I get it. Joke's on Bobby. Good one."

"What?" I ask.

He hands the bottle back to me. "If I wanted water, I'd just go to the cooler."

"What?"

He shrugs, points to my hand, and says, "Umm, H-two-oh? Agua?"

Highly confused, I turn the bottle upright against my mouth. Surely enough, it is water. A quick sniff proves that there is not, in fact, any alcohol in here. Smells as though there never was. "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter. "And the friggin' Oscar goes to…"

BHB looks as though he's about to speak when Paige's voice appears from around the corner. "Cut the crap, Jackie. The number of fingers that you may or may not possess is no excuse for such sloppy work." Startled and in a hurry, I shove the pint into the front of my pants. Finally appearing, Paige barks at us, "No making out unless I get to watch."

We each laugh awkwardly and begin walking back until she stops us. "And one more order of business: Fields here has finally agreed to help out."

"No I didn't?" I spit.

To BHB, she continues, "After a lengthy conversation last night, she saw our side of things. She practically put the words in my mouth. Operation Ruin-A-Bitch commences this evening."

And before I can get another word in, she leads him away.

Reeking of sweat, tired, and tending to a rash caused by way of a foreign object in my pants for at least three more hours, I fall into bed. Thankfully, Paige was too intent on hunting popsicles down that she didn't follow me up. So I lay still and quietly. Enjoy the deadness of everything. Looking around every so often, soaking in a room unscathed by one hyperactive Paige McCullers.

That's when it catches my eye.

On Paige's bed lies a book. A brown hardback that, at first glance, appears to have stained yellow pages. "Paiges," I whisper to myself, allowing a chuckle.

The first few sheets are frail and blank. Further flipping provides the oddest discovery to date. Poems. None handwritten, but typed. Okay, so Paige digs poems. Closer to the book's middle is a dog-eared page, and when I decide to flip to it, the title hasn't registered in my brain before a voice calls out, "And you said that you didn't condone snooping."

It's Paige in the doorway, holding a notebook in one hand and pair of glasses in the other. "No, I—" but nothing else will come. "Poetry?"

She shrugs and ventures toward the bed, but doesn't take the object from my hands. "What can I say? I'm something of a romantic."

"Nothing Gold Can Stay," I read aloud. Vaguely familiar. "Isn't this from a book, or movie, or something?"

"'Isn't this from a book, or movie, or something?'" she mimics, shaking her head. "You poor, uncultured soul. This just so happens to be the key to understanding just about anything of this world." Confused, I'm about to request further explanation when Paige begins reciting lines from memory. Aloud and with eloquence, words of nature and dawn and dusk are brought forth. As each lingers in the air, they just so happen to fly over my head as well.

She takes a moment to slurp from a newly opened popsicle before handing it to me. "Your favorite movie ends; you run out of frozen blue goodness; kids lose their innocence in growing up. Hell, the person that you love will either die or cease in loving you. So when Frost says, 'Nothing gold can stay,' he really means all good shit gets fucked up over time, and there's nothing that you can do about it."

"That took a turn rather quickly," I joke, handing the book to her.

"Just about everything does," she chuckles. "One minute, everything's peachy. Then next—poof—it's gone."

The words seem to resonate within both of us. We sit in the silent recognition that one would after hearing terrible news. Your mother's been in a fatal car accident. Santa isn't real. Stuff like that.

I slurp from the plastic like Paige would, only to fully understand why she loves these things so damn much. They're delicious. And as I near its end, drawing the last of dyed liquid into my mouth with one final pull, I state, "So you don't believe that anything remotely decent in this world sticks around."

Her eyebrow cocks and both eyes manage to fall simultaneously. She opens her mouth to speak, but swallows the words. With enough disgruntled moments, though, she eventually answers. "Truth be told, I'm not sure what I believe in these days."

The statement is a sucker punch to the heart, I'll admit. And I'm not totally sure why. People believe in all sorts of things. Religion, morals, superstitions. But I've never met anyone without at least one of the three. How miserable that must be. Going through life without something to drive you. Paige seems to be okay with it, though. If she's not, then she doesn't let on. Especially when she places a hand on my back and begins pushing me along. "Actually, I do believe that it's time you uphold your end of the bargain."

"The last time I checked, bargaining required a little give and take on both ends," I point out. "I gave, you take."

She laughs, ushering me through the doorway. "After all the giving that I was doing last night, we'll just call this even."

"About that—" I begin, only to be cut off by Paige's finger twirling through the air. The universal circular motion that means "turn around." Fine. We'll just prolong this conversation like we do with every other. I march. Halfway down the hallway, though, the weird sensation of someone watching sets in. I turn just as our room door shuts and everything darkens.

The attic hatch isn't hard to find. The only real issue is opening it quietly enough as not to draw attention. This takes time.

I'm eventually successful and climb the rickety staircase, trying the switch that burned out on us from before. Thankfully, it dimly illuminates the room.

Everything is just as messy as Paige left it, so more time is exhausted in sorting through the piles of leaflets. I kick around, searching for the very box that Paige sat atop in overalls, laughing as she read through various manila folders. This takes time, too, but I'm also successful in locating.

There are easily three hundred folders in the box. Possibly more. Last names-comma-firsts handwritten on the top of each. I begin thumbing through, keeping to the right. Searching for Calley. Luckily, there is only one Calley admitted to Piney Groves. Last name: Macintosh.

But when I pull the folder, another name pops out. Just behind hers is McCullers-comma-Paige.

Now this may seem a bit rash, but I immediately skip over Calley's folder and pull Paige's. I know what you're thinking; it's vile, selfish, and a complete act of betrayal. Privacy is a valuable thing that shouldn't be infringed upon. I get this. But Paige hasn't exactly been forthright in divulging personal information, and that's the point of a partnership, right? Whether it be in relationships, kinship, or prank-pulling camaraderie, complete honesty is of utmost importance. Knowing the enemy is key, but trusting those on your side is equally crucial.

All justification aside, it should also be noted as to how thin her file is. Honestly, I'm disappointed in how much it's lacking. Especially considering the Paige of late.

Her picture is situated underneath a paper clip in the top left corner. She isn't smiling. Behind are two sheets of typed paper. I skim the list, noting the basic information. Birth date, address, and other personal details.

Lower, one word jumps off of the page. Diagnosis. A slew of other words follow. Depression, self-inflicted damage, and a bunch of medical terms that don't register with my limited vocabulary. The first two, though, they explain a lot. They leave a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. A bad taste in my mouth. A pang of guilt in my chest.

The first page is further dedicated to a lengthy list of prescriptions. Anti-depressants, I'm assuming. And boy, are there a lot. Each with intricate names. High dosages. No wonder she's so off kilter all of the time, I think. They're constantly pumping her full of junk.

I flip the paper up, quickly perusing the second. There are warnings listed. Symptoms, signs to look for, and measures should something go awry. Emergency contact information. All of it's one big headache and relatively difficult to take in. That is, until my eyes meet the bottommost line. An area dedicated to the "Due to be released" portion. It reads: July 29th, 2012.

Three and a half months ago.

I shut the folder altogether. Then I close my eyes, count to ten, and shove it back into the box.

Days go by slowly. My mind reels with the newest information. Whys plague my thoughts. It's torturous. I avoid Paige at all costs. Give her the cold shoulder, fearful of stirring up trouble by way of a slipped comment.

Eventually, the silence becomes too much.

I find BHB one night, an expression of anguish clearly plastered on my face. I try to shake it off. "Girl talk," he sings out in my approaching, deviously rubbing both hands together. "Love it."

"You're my mentor, guy," I smoothly insist. "And my interim Hanna. I merely seek advice."

He chuckles. "Please. On the list of influential people in your current life, it's safe to say that I come in at a close twelfth."

"I don't even know twelve people. Here, at least."

"Ehh, I figured Paige's ego deserved at least ten spots of its own."

We laugh. "Well, since you brought her up…"

"I knew it. Again? Jeez, man. Maybe Paige was right. You two are a married couple. Which is a real shame, considering that I was banking on being maid of honor," he says. "Okay, okay. Joking's over. What can I do you for?"

"The other night—when you and Paige disappeared—where'd she go?" I ask.

He taps his chin. "She was with me. We were up all night working on application essays," he says. "Fine-tuned those damn things until almost three."

"Of course," I mumble, suddenly feeling more naïve than ever. I should've known better. She didn't taste or smell of alcohol. Only acted like she'd been drinking. But I bought into the entire. damn. thing.

I sit and explain the situation in great detail. The days and minutes leading up. Excluding our not-drunk make-out session. Discovering a folder with Paige's name on it. Perusing through its startling contents. "It's all been an act. Every single second leading up until now."

BHB has been listening intently, nodding his head as if the knowledge I've acquired is anything but uncommon. And he soon proves this point by speaking with an air of finality as he says, "You're wrong." My face twists in agony as he repeats with a smile, "You're wrong."

"She was supposed to leave this place almost four months ago," I explain. "She hates it here. She's made that very clear. And underneath a big V-R—"

"Voluntary readmission," BHB interrupts, digging his spoon into a newly-retrieved pudding cup even further.

"And underneath the snippet about voluntary readmission was all of this nonsense about medications, restrictions, and a bunch of therapy hubblah. I mean, it's wild. Whether she's freeloading an extra four months in this wretched place or taking the entire pharmacy just to remain normal, it's safe to say that Paige is certainly twis—"

A spoon waves in front of my face. "Okay, I'm going to stop you right there. There is nothing wrong with her, Emily," he says, voice taking on a steely nature. "She is not twisted. She is not insane. She is not crazy, or mental, or psychotic. Paige is in pain. She's hurting. And despite whatever choices she makes, I'm not going to allow you to sit here and pass such narrow-minded, harsh judgment."

"You asked me to give her a chance and I did. I've given her many chances," I retort. "But every time that I do, something new unfolds. Something far more confusing than the last. I'm just lost as to what I should make of this."

He laughs in an impatient way. "Stop trying to make sense of Paige," BHB whines, returning to the pudding. "Stop trying to piece her together. You can't fix people, Emily. And while you might not see it now, that's exactly what you're trying to do. Paige is Paige for good reason. Her intentions are there. You just have to open your fucking eyes."

It's clear that we're both angry. Heated. Agitated. Myself more than he, understandably. "And what am I supposed to be seeing?" I regretfully snap too harshly. "She's been lying to us. Thank God that I'm finding everything or else we'd probably never know."

"Think of the things that you come across every day," he insists. "About Paige. What do you see?"

I huff but decide to play along, closing my eyes for effect. As if envisioning Paige in the hallways, our room, the cafeteria, and many other places. When small tidbits begin jumping out, I relay them aloud. "Lists. She's always writing her ideas down. Planning stuff." BHB mumbles in agreement. "Popsicles. Those damn blue popsicles." Another hum. "She's punctual. Always up earlier than necessary. She's completely absorbed with herself, makes bad jokes, and prefers to be in charge."

BHB smiles. "Progress. Now let me ask you a question: Does a punctual, list-loving, popsicle-demolishing egocentric sound like someone who doesn't think things through?" I shake my head, not sure as to where he's leading. "Does it sound like someone who leaves things to chance? Someone who's careless?"

"No, I don't suppose so," I agree.

"Then if everything adds up the way I think it is, Paige is pointing you in all the right directions."

I groan and rub furiously at my face. Why must she be so difficult? Why must BHB be so understanding? "Towards what, though?"

"No clue," he quickly states, finishing off the pudding. "I'm sure she'll tell you that. Eventually," he laughs.

"None of this explains why she's still here then," I point out. "Is she homeless or something? Honestly, what could make a person be here anymore than they have to?"

Nonchalantly, BHB quickly begins inwardly calculating. Occasionally muttering an option aloud, he dismisses each with a disappointed shake of his head. Eventually, he sighs and bites his bottom lip. "There's only one thing that could possibly make sense. The only thing that stands out."

"And that is?" I ask too fervently.

This time, he chuckles in knowing fashion. And with a simple shrug, BHB stands and collects his belongings before saying, "You showed up."