Red. The foundation color has to be red.

But first the sticks. She needs eight; plus a shuttle, a batten, and a pick. Sturdy for the warp and shed rods, lighter for the heddle sticks, and all of them as straight as nature may allow.

Dead wood cannot withstand the tension that will be placed on it, so the sticks must be green. She has to buy a small hatchet for this. The books tell her hardwood, not conifer. She understands, and goes to the aspens.

The fallen one has been on the ground too long. Its grain will not hold. She looks to the others, insides shivering. It's a thing she has never done before, to harvest a living branch. She runs her hands over the smooth bark, and the trees' leaves shiver their reply. She reaches up, searching for the branches that are straight, and just the right circumference under her palm. She hefts the hatchet in her other hand. If she makes this first cut, the sacrifice will be laid. A warp thread binding her. To complete the loom, and the cloth upon it. She hopes it will bind Edward and his family too. To return.

Crying, she cuts.

At night, she goes to her father's tackle box and takes the sharp knife with the serrated spine, the one that guts and scales the fish, to strip the bark, pare away the knots and crooked places, notch the ends for tying. Each time, she memorizes where the knife lies in the box. Each time puts it back, exactly as she found it. Sandpaper she has to buy herself, and hides it with the hatchet in her room.

Cordage. Bungee and fishing line are all wrong. White butcher's twine, then, for wrapping the warp sticks; but it's not strong enough for the lasso that will anchor the loom to a hook or a hangar. And it certainly won't do for the backstrap that will hold the weave taut to her waist.

It takes a lot of wandering, here and there in the woods, as the weeks of summer school wind down. There is no time for now and then — she has to keep her eyes sharp every day. Before class. On her way home. Searching for the ones that say "I am the one that will make the thing in your mind." While every day pares off a few more minutes of light from the day before.

In the end she learns to strip and braid cedar bark for the lasso cord. The backstrap has to be wide, and a little padded so as not to dig into her under tension. She weaves it from the aspen skin saved from all the loom rods, and the long grasses growing by the edge of the football field. These will have to do. She doesn't know how to get to the meadow. That passage — both to and from — had been too fast for her human eyes to track.

She found the deer scarer. Off of its rocker. Split down the middle. When did that happen? And how? But the broad, lengthwise shard of smooth bamboo looks just right for the batten. The books call that thing "espada" — "sword." Used to tamp down each line of weft tight with the ones that went before. She just has to carve and sand it to the right shape.

August wanes. The season of pencils and books and backpacks returns.

She hardly speaks at school. Her hand is never raised. Only attendance and homework are impeccable. She cooks as before, goes up to her room after the dishes are washed, and takes meticulous care of the truck.

She tries, really hard, to be normal on her birthday in September.

Renee makes the trip from Jacksonville. Alone. They have cake and ice cream. Candles even. Eat in the dining room. Jessica, Mike, Angela, Eric, even Tyler and Lauren come. They all go to see Ratatouille together afterwards.

Charlie isn't fooled.

"You said senior year was important to you, Bells. Said it was why you wanted to stay — to have this year with your friends. But that's not what I'm seeing here."

So she has to meet with the school counselor once a week. That doesn't really help her social life. But she is too tired to try to make the case to her parents, or to the counselor.

She only draws the line at medication. It was the first time she'd ever shouted at a parent.

"Do NOT make me take pills! I swear on the Bible I'll run away if you make me take pills! I SWEAR I will. Don't TRY me!"

Charlie backed off. Told the counselor to stow it. Now he stares at the T.V. alone in the dark with his beer. Hopes her having the gumption to yell like that means that she will find her way out in her own time.

The weeks bleed by. Eventually her friends stop trying to make conversation with her. Jessica and Mike hold out the longest.

"You can't just let her go. Otherwise, what did she come back from the coma for?"

"Never saw a kid with so many weird accidents happen to them."

—-

The dimensions of her closet had stumped her. How can she make a cloth long enough, when there are only about three and a half feet between where she would anchor the far warp rod on a hook, and the near warp rod up against her waist where she sits on the floor? But the doubled warp bars will solve it — clamping the threads tight between them, so they can be rolled. Roll the warp onto the far pair. As the woven fabric grows, roll it onto the near pair, keeping it all taut and snugged against her stomach. Seven feet. Plus fringes. It will be tricky to keep the tension. But with care …

How wide should she make the cloth, then? She circles a length of string around her waist. Yes. This wide.

For two and a half months she has pored over pictures and diagrams and even found some videos. She knows that the colors of the warp threads will make the lengthwise pattern for the cloth. But how that translates into shapes brocaded crosswise into the weave is a mystery demanding, to her surprise, a lot of mathematics. And what even are the shapes that will translate the pieces of the world that will bring them back?

Or how thick should the thread be? Too thin, and the cloth will take forever. Too thick, and it will not be fine enough to catch what must be caught.

Help me.

Trust.

Help me.

Trust.

There is no more time. October is upon her. Harvests, and hallows, and going down into the dark. All the loom pieces are ready. She'll use the posts at the head and foot of her bed to wind the warp — stringing it criss-cross, like a cat's cradle between the four corners. It's the only way to make it long enough. She has to start, even if her plans are little more than a tiny down feather and a silent prayer.

Bought thread will have to do. Spinning and dyeing her own is an impossible shore.

Forks does not have the weight and colors of thread that she will need. And she discovers that the amount she needs will cost her all her savings. She convinces her father to let her go on her own to Port Angeles. Maybe he understands that she doesn't want to lie. Maybe that's why he doesn't ask her too many questions. Just requires from her a promise, that she'll be home before dark.