Chapter 1

"How's Piper? Any word?" A girl with long, raven-black hair swoops in front of me, blocking my way down the crowded school hall. She blinks dewy eyes and bites her bottom lip like she's about to cry. Like she's been losing sleep worrying about Piper.

I clench my teeth and consider barreling by her. Instead, I shake my head. "No, nothing."

The girl frowns, stepping out of the way. I'm nearly out of earshot when she calls after me, "I really hope she wakes up."

The words pummel my gut. Raven Girl must think it's that easy. She probably thinks going into a coma is like going into some sort of machine, like those hibernation pods in sci-fi movies. The person just lies there for days, weeks, however long it takes for their body to decide it's had enough. And then, like no time has gone by, they wake up.

That's how it used to go in my imagination too. At some point, the person always woke up.

But Piper's not in some cryogenic chamber, waiting for her brain to restart.

I know she might not wake up. Ever.

And I know it's my fault.

I try to blot the girl with the inky hair and fake tears out of my mind. None of these people care about my younger sister, who was far from well known around campus. They're probably just trying to get into my good graces.

But all they're really doing is forcing me to replay everything I did—everything I didn't do—to push Piper to her breaking point. I'm one well wish away from ending up a puddle on the crusty linoleum floor.

The school hall is lively and bustling as students rush to first period. It's drafty—it always is in the fall until sometime around eleven, when the sun comes out. I shrug my backpack off and rifle through it for my Grayling High Girls' Soccer jacket. But it's not here. I must've forgotten it. Annoyed, I wrap my arms around myself and trudge to class, goosebumps prickling my arms.

When I reach the end of the lockers, a memory stops me. Piper keeps an extra sweater stuffed inside her locker because she's always cold. No meat on her skinny bones.

I rub my frozen shoulders again. She wouldn't mind. We borrow each other's clothes. I mean, we would , if we were closer in size.

And closer in other ways.

A different kind of chill racks my body. She certainly isn't going to need that sweater today.

I head back the way I came, pushing through the herd until I'm at Piper's locker. No one's touched it since the day she fell. Everyone's acting like she's going to waltz back through the school doors any second, even my parents.

Even though they know Piper's prognosis.

My parents, for all their brilliance, are very stubborn.

My backpack slides to the floor, and I work on the lock. The numbers don't come to me right away. We aren't the kind of sisters who share locker combinations or passwords, but I've gotten her books a couple of times when she's been out sick. I dig out my phone and find the combo in my notes. Then I grasp the cold metal and twist until it clicks, falling open.

I tug on the door, and immediately, Piper's scent wafts out. Dusty old books and raspberry vanilla shampoo. My chest constricts. Piper's locker is a reflection of her room at home. The books are neatly lined up at the back. There's a pile of spiral-bound notebooks on the left. Everything else—her sweater included—is piled up on the right.

The tardy bell rings, startling me. I take a breath and reach for the sweater, tugging it from beneath a pile of ChapSticks, pens, and packs of gum. Being late doesn't worry me. Teachers tend to make exceptions for the girl whose sister threw herself off of the town's scenic viewpoint.

Once the sweater is free, I shut the locker door and cradle the fabric in all of its bright yellow, cotton-blended glory. Piper looks like a canary when she wears this, frizzy blond hair spilling over the yellow threads. Suddenly, I don't know why I thought borrowing the sweater was a good idea. I can't wear this. It looks like her. Smells like her.

Then again, maybe wrapping a constant reminder around my body is exactly what I deserve. I shake it out of its perfectly folded state to slide an arm inside, and something slips out, tumbling to the floor.

A note.

I bend over to retrieve it. Just an office note, telling Piper about a change in plans for one of her millions of after-school clubs.

Survival Club will be holding an extra skills session after school today at Vanderwild Point.

—Mr. Davis

My pulse quickens. Vanderwild Point: the place where Piper tried to take her own life four weeks ago. Despite the chill in the hall, my forehead starts to sweat. In addition to being signed by the Survival Club's advisor, the note is dated.

September sixteenth. The day Piper fell.