I really need to speak to you right now. The girl whose body I’m in wants to kill herself. This is not a joke.

There’s a phone number. I call it right away.

I know it’s not a joke. I’m sure there are people who could joke about a thing like this, but I know A isn’t one of them.

I just know.

The voice that answers is a girl’s. “Hello?” She sounds a little like me.

“Is that you?” I ask.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“I got your email. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s all in her journal—all these ways to kill herself. It’s really…graphic. And methodical. I can’t even get into it—there are just so many ways to die, and it’s like she’s researched each and every one. And she’s set herself a deadline. In six days.”

I feel the dredging inside me. I feel the girl I once was reaching out to connect with that. I try to focus on the present.

“That poor girl,” I tell A. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

She sounds so lost. So overwhelmed.

“Don’t you have to tell someone?” I suggest.

“There was no training for this, Rhiannon. I really don’t know.”

I’ve been there, I want to tell her. But it’s too scary.

“Where are you?” I ask.

A tells me where she is, and it’s not that far. I tell her I can be there in a little while.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

“Yeah. Her father doesn’t get home until around seven.”

“Give me the address,” I say. After she does, I say, “I’ll be right there.”

I don’t know this girl. A hasn’t told me much. But maybe that’s why it’s easier to fill in the blanks with myself.

I shouldn’t think it, but I think it anyway: This is the girl I’d be if I hadn’t met Justin.

That’s how bad it was. Or maybe that’s just how bad it seemed. I don’t know now. I can’t tell the difference. All I know is I was convinced that nobody would care if I died. I had elaborate fantasies about my very simple funeral—no one but my relatives there. No boy in tears in the front row. No one who could get up and talk about me as if they really knew me.

I knew I wasn’t going to do it. But I also knew I could. I treasured that thought. That I could.

Most of the time when we think we’re looking for death, we’re really looking for love.

That was definitely the case with me. Because Justin came in and gave me the meaning I was looking for. Justin became the mourner I wanted, and that led to other friends, other mourners. I populated my funeral until I didn’t want one anymore.

But I realize that’s not always the case.

I realize there are girls who don’t have that.

I realize I am driving toward one of them right now. Not because of what A told me, but because of the sound of her voice. The fear.

I recognize that.

It’s a short drive, but I try to come up with a plan.

I’m not really thinking about A at all. I am not wondering why A, who’s lived in so many bodies, doesn’t know what to do. I am not amazed that I know more than A does.

I’m just driving and thinking as fast as I can.

I find the house. It’s a normal house. I ring the doorbell. It sounds like a normal doorbell.

She answers, and from the moment I see her, I know that she’s another disappearing girl, that she’s desperately trying to disappear. The signs of it tattoo her body—the wear and tear. It is hard for unhealthy people to masquerade as healthy ones, especially once they’ve stopped caring if other people notice.

The only difference is her eyes. Her eyes are still alive.

I know that’s not her.

I know for sure now that this is actually happening. No trick. Just truth. Plenty of feeling, but at the center of it—fact.

“Thank you for coming,” A says.

She leads me up to the girl’s room. It’s a pit, like she lashed out against it and left herself the wreckage to live in. Her clothes are all over the place, and there’s no way of telling the difference between the clean and the dirty. She’s broken her mirror. Everything on the walls is on its way to being torn down. She might as well cut her wrist and rub FUCK YOU across the walls.

It’s not a mess. It’s anger.

There’s a notebook on the bed. I open it. I know what I’m going to find, but still it hits me in the gut.

This is how to stab yourself.

This is how to bleed.

This is how to choke.

This is how to fall.

This is how to burn.

This is how to poison.

This is how to die.

These aren’t hypotheticals. This isn’t her being dramatic. This is her finding the facts to match the feelings. To end the feelings.

It is all so wrong. I want to shake her. I want to tell her to step away from the funeral.

And there’s the deadline at the end. Practically tomorrow.

A’s been quiet as I’ve been reading. Now I look up at her.

“This is serious,” I say. “I’ve had…thoughts. But nothing like this.”

I’ve been standing this whole time, the notebook in my hand. Now I put it down. And then I put myself down, too. I need to sit down. I place myself on the edge of the bed. A sits down next to me.

“You have to stop her,” I say. I, who am certain of so few things, am certain of this.

“But how can I?” A asks. “And is that really my right? Shouldn’t she decide that for herself?”

This is not what I am expecting A to say. It’s so ridiculous. Offensive.

“So, what?” I say, not bothering to keep the anger out of my voice. “You just let her die? Because you didn’t want to get involved?”

She takes my hand. Tries to calm me down.

“We don’t know for sure that the deadline’s real. This could just be her way of getting rid of the thoughts. Putting them on paper so she doesn’t do them.”

No. That’s an excuse. This is not the time for excuses. I throw it back at her: “But you don’t believe that, do you? You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that.”

She’s silent in response, so I know I’m right.

I look down and see her hand in mine. I let myself feel it, let it mean more than just support.