For a moment I froze. How exactly could I possibly explain this to Callie? Hey, Callie, I know we don't know each other very well, but I swear, everyone in this park seems to know me. Oh, and I might be crazy. No, that most definitely wasn't happening. "I, uh, I don't feel so well. Do you mind cutting this short and heading back?" I improvised. Honestly, it wasn't even a lie either. I felt both scared and nauseous, and definitely eager to get away from crowds of people.

She frowned. "Of course! That totally sucks."

We threw away the leftovers, and started out of the park, but not before I overheard an indignant woman complaining in the background: "How could you sell this? It's gone bad. I'll be reporting this!"

I tripped, shocked, and Callie had to catch me. "You okay?" she asked.

I nodded. That one was a lie. I was too busy freaking out over what had just happened, and what I'd just heard. Maybe it was all just coincidence. Maybe someone had been doing something really hilarious behind me and I'd just missed it, so that's what they were staring at. As for the lady's comment, some people just sucked, so maybe one of the farmers was trying to get away with selling rotten food to make a profit. Except no one had been laughing while staring, and when we walked through the Market, I hadn't noticed anything spoiled.

The walk home was horrible. Out of the corner of my eye I kept thinking I saw people watching me, but when I turned around, nothing was out of the ordinary. When we finally reached my dorm, I collapsed onto the bed immediately. I'd never been so glad to see the two small beds, desk and laptop, and various posters for video games and movies that Kyle had plastered all over our walls. He'd argued that since the previous tenants had put tack holes in the wall, if we just put tacks in the same holes, it wouldn't be a big deal. Which, so far, it hadn't been. Right now, his overt nerdiness was comforting. It was home.

Callie fussed over me for a little while. That girl was a natural born Florence Nightingale. She even made me soup, as cheesy as that sounds. Unfortunately, I didn't have much of an appetite. I was content to lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, with Camael curled up and purring at my side. Honestly, I just wanted to be alone, because if Callie turned into a staring automaton, I swear, I would lose it.

Finally, after placing multiple blankets and trash can near me (in case of throw up. Lovely) she left, seeming to catch on to my antisocial mood.

Except I was wrong. I didn't really want to be alone, because the absolute silence was worse. God, how long did it take Kyle to get some basic groceries? There was a more pressing question though. Well, several questions. What was going on? Was I going crazy? Shit, if I was crazy, what was I going to do? I'd already invested two years in pre-med, the last thing I wanted to do was give it all up to go somewhere with padded walls. I rolled over in bed, pressed my face into the cotton pillow, and screamed, frustrated and scared.

And then someone knocked.

I don't know how, but I knew that it wasn't Kyle. I felt like a startled Halloween cat. All my hair should be standing on end, while I hissed at something. Whoever was on the other side of that door felt wrong, even from over here.

They knocked again.

I wanted to avoid it. Almost every instinct in my body was telling me to ignore it. But at the same time...I wanted to know what was going on. I had to know what was going on. The same instinct that told me that something bad was knocking also told me that that bad thing knew what was happening.

I stood up, headed over to the tiny area of our dorm that constituted a kitchen, and grabbed a butcher's knife. I may be dumb enough to open my door, but I wasn't going to do this unprepared. Of course, if I was totally wrong and there was just Kyle behind that door, I was totally going to be screwed.

I kept the knife in my hand behind the door as I reached across and opened it.

The boy from outside of Safeway was standing there. He looked exactly the same, right down to his red rimmed eyes. I don't know how some pothead college kid sent a tremor of fear through my entire body, but he did.

He didn't waste any time. "Duncan sent me," he said, pushing his way past me into my room. Camael hissed, bolted off the bed, and ran yowling underneath it. Jealous of the cat, I tightened my grip on the butcher's knife. He glanced down at it, and a look of mild surprise followed by amusement flicked across his face. "You've got to be kidding me. What are you going to do with that?"

I hesitated for a minute before reaching out and halfheartedly brandishing the knife. "What are you doing in my room? How do you even know where I live? Did you follow me?"

"Please, anyone could find you. You reek even worse than normal. It wasn't like this earlier, but something's changed since then. I can barely stand next to you it's gotten so bad."

I would've been offended if I weren't so freaked out. The boy sauntered more into my room with a look of disdain on his face. As he stepped forward, I found myself backing up an equal amount.

"This is disgusting," he gestured around. "What are you doing living here? As much as I hate to admit it, you're better than...this," he sounded like saying it was going to make him choke.

Finally, I got my voice back. "I don't know who you are, but get out of my dorm!" I held the knife out at arm's length between us.

For the first time the expression on his face went serious, instead of mocking or disdainful. "What are you talking about? Look, I know you and I don't get along, but Duncan sent me to get you. If you don't move somewhere safe, they're just going to find you again. Do you want a repeat of last time? Cause I sure as hell don't."

"I've never met you before in my life!" I snapped, feeling embarrassingly close to tears. I wanted to start this day over again. I would've spent the whole day in bed, in my dorm room if I'd known this was going to happen.

The boy frowned. "Luke, come on. Stop kidding around," he sounded desperate. "We need to go now. If I can find you, you can bet that they can! I-" he suddenly stopped, and leaned in closer, taking a creepily deep sniff. I backed up another step. "Unless...no, you didn't. Please tell me you didn't. Shit, you did!"

I pulled out my cell phone. "I'm going to call the police if you don't leave right now," I told him sounding less firm than I would've hoped. I wanted to clear my throat to shake the fear out of voice, but I couldn't do that with him right there. I had the knife, but he was the scary one.

"Fine, Duncan's going to have to come deal with you. I knew you were stupid, but this is unbelievable. If you die, it'll be your own damn fault!"

His final sentence left me speechless while he stomped to the door, and slammed it behind him.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I shouted at the closed door. Frustrated, I threw the knife back onto the counter, and kicked the door. Camael, who had begun to creep out from under the bed, jumped at the sound and scurried back in.

Okay. Okay. This was officially over my head. I was crazy, and some equally crazy (if not more so) person was stalking me. Worse, he was sending somebody named Duncan to 'deal with me'. I don't know if he was some evil mob boss or what, but I never wanted to meet him. Although it went against ever fiber in my being to reopen communications with them, I was going to have to call my parents. Some remnant from my childhood was insisting that, as parents, they would know what to do here. At the very least, they could pay for my stay in an asylum.

I pulled out my cell phone, and dialed their home phone number, hesitating after each digit. Finally, the connection opened up. It rang a few times, and an unfamiliar female voice answered. "Seattle Museum of History and Industry, how may I help you?"

I apologized for the wrong number, and tried again, this time double checking what I was dialing.

"Seattle Museum of History and Industry, how may I help you?"

Confused, I hung up and tried again to the same result. Sure, I hadn't talked to them in two years, but that was not enough time to convert our house into a museum. Next, I tried both of their cell phones.

"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I got the same message three times. What was going on? Where were my parents?