I scramble down to my knees to retrieve my phone before lifting my eyes. A pair of dirty bare feet. Khaki torn trousers lined with mud. A loose fitting Renaissance-styled shirt over a thin but fit torso. I glimpse the man's face, shyly. Dark hair ends just above his shoulders, and a light beard lines his chin.

I stand back up slowly and stop breathing.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you." He has something like a French accent, but it sounds a little unusual. And he watches me, eyes me cautiously as if waiting for some reaction.

I say nothing. I don't even move as he continues to approach.

"I saw you pass out in the water. I wanted to make sure you were . . . "

My heart patters quickly in my chest. I think I'm too afraid to breathe.

He slows his walking. "I'm not going to hurt you if that's what you're worried about."

I shake my head instinctively, but his suggestion makes me worried. Images of girls alone in parking lots being abducted flood my mind. I'm sure I've seen security footage on the news of such things. Sometimes the girls' bodies aren't found, right? They're just presumed dead.

The stranger stops and puts his hands out.

"You don't remember me," he says. "Do you?"

He'd been the one standing on the rock before I passed out in the water, but . . .

"I mean from before," he says. "When we were kids."

I consider running, but where? I'm too shaken to go back toward the beach, and that's where the largest crowd is. Maybe I can get back into the car, lock the door, and—

"You're Alison Halse," he says. "You used to live on a farm off of Walnut Street. Your favorite book was 'The Little Vampire', and you've been living with your aunt and uncle since . . ." He hesitates. "Well, it'll be 8 years this October."

He's wrong about my uncle. Lindsay and Matt divorced five years ago, but he's right about everything else.

"Who—who did you say you are?"

He walks up beside me.

"Philip Dussault," he says. "I was shorter then and didn't have the beard. Also, I've built a little muscle."

He lifts his sleeve and flexes his arm a little, giving me a small smile.

"Alright, okay," I say and fumble with my keys. "Well, it was nice meeting you."

As I turn to unlock the door, he leans his side against my car, just close enough to block my way in.

"We should hang out," he says. "Catch up. It isn't every day that you bump into a friend you haven't seen in nearly a decade."

"Um . . . "

"Have you had lunch?" he says. "We could go down to the Chateau and get a bite to eat. My treat."

My body starts to shiver at the thought of heading back toward the lake. I pray he doesn't notice.

"It'll be fun," he says. "Besides you still seem a bit shaken anyway. It'll give you – "

"I can't!" God, I'm overreacting!

Good, my mind tells me. Maybe it'll scare him away.

"What's wrong?" he says.

And then something happens. It's hard to describe. There seems a gentle push in my mind, and out of my mouth plops the words, "I'm afraid of the lake . . . well, water, really, and people, and . . . I just need to go. I shouldn't have come here."

"You're afraid of water," he repeats quietly. The frown on his face says everything I need to know.

A cloud momentarily blocks the sun, and I think, Oh, God! Here comes the ridicule.

"Uh, yeah," I say. "It's sort of a phobia thing. Well, not a thing. It's a phobia and not my only one. It's why I passed out in the lake. God, why am I telling you this? I gotta go. Goodbye."

But he doesn't get out of my way. He seems to consider saying something, but then just nods.

"Okay," he finally says. "Okay. Let's go somewhere else. How about the DQ on twelve?"

I blink a few times. "I'm sorry. What?"

And then I take a misstep. Philip jumps forward, catches me and sets me back on my feet.

"You weren't kidding about that anxiety," he says. "Here." He removes my keys from my fingers. "I'll drive."

I can't believe I'm letting him drive my aunt's car. What's wrong with me?

We don't talk much on the drive. I sit glued to the passenger window watching my ghostly reflection speed through the trees. I keep thinking the phrase 'I hope I don't die' like it's my personal mantra. But why should I care? If this stranger, Philip, is taking me away to my death, isn't he doing me a favor? Then again, such murders are rarely simple and painless, are they?

Meanwhile, Philip's driving is terrible. He rides the line the majority of the time, breaks abruptly as if his goal is to give us whiplash and takes turns too sharply. It's not so much of a danger while we're on the country roads, but as we turn onto 12, he nearly sideswipes another vehicle.

I receive a text from my aunt just at that moment.

Lindsay: You get your ass home now!!

My fingers hover above the keyboard. What could I possibly say? Going out to eat with a stranger? I think he's safe, but just in case, we just turned right off of 159 and are heading on 12 toward Baraboo? Please don't be mad? Without sending a reply, I drop the phone to my lap.

"How about some music?" Philip suggests and bumps on the radio. The interior of the car fills with Blue Oyster Cult's 'Don't Fear the Reaper.'

How appropriate, I think, and Philip smiles as he taps the rhythm on the steering wheel.

"You sing?" he asks, nudging me a little with his thumb.

I shake my head. He smiles, turns up the volume, and starts to sing along. My eyes widen as goosebumps run down my arms and a shiver through my spine. His voice purrs through me. I can't help but turn and look at him. If I weren't petrified of him, I might—

"Oh God," I say. "Red light. Red light. Stop!"

We skid and land in the midst of traffic. I squint my eyes shut. Tires squeal. A horn honks. I wait for the sound of breaking glass. Then my head hits the headrest, and we suddenly speed forward.

"Sorry," I hear Philip say. "I don't usually drive."

I slide into a booth at DQ and bury my face into my hands. My body shivers. I'm too exhausted to cry again, too emotionally whipped to have another anxiety attack, though my insides feel like ice. I wish I could just leave—pull through the drive-thru, get my meal, and eat in the privacy of my aunt's vehicle.

At least he took me to DQ and not . . . elsewhere. Still, I decide that the salt shaker is much more interesting than my anxiety—or rather that it takes my mind off of it.

As it finally dawns on me that Philip could get kicked out for being barefoot, he slides into the booth across from me. I see his hands out of the corner of my eye as he slides my keys across the table and sets a plastic order number down. "Your meal will be coming up soon," he says. "But, while I wouldn't advise it, you're free to escape."

I cup my hand over the keys. "Thanks." Turning my gaze out the window, I try to isolate him out of my field of vision. There isn't much to look at, just the parking lot, grass, trees, power lines, blue skies. There's a car dealership a little ways in the distance, but it's mostly open space.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Philip says.

I look at the window seal. "It's okay."

"Alison," he says. "You can talk to me."

"I—I'm not very good at socializing."

"No? Try me. Ask me something."

I peek up at his face through my eyelashes. "I—I," I stutter. "How are you?"

He laughs, and I feel myself blush. "Good, good," he says. "I'm very good."

"Okay," I mumble.

"And how are you, ma chérie?"

"Fine." I hug myself and bite my bottom lip, and Philip taps his finger on the table.

"That all you got?"

I shrug. "I'm nervous."

His hands edge toward mine. "Would you rather I leave?"

I look at my hands and fidget. "Um," I say. "You don't have to. You need a ride back, don't you?"

"No."

"Oh," I say and start pushing back on my cuticles. We are silent for several seconds. Then, I glance up and notice him running his hands through his hair.

He looks out the window. "So I guess this is goodbye." His voice has a slight quiver to it, and . . . and there's something else. It's not his voice. It seems some sort of static in the air. He turns his eyes toward me, and for a moment, I resist the urge to look away. But then I chicken out and shift my eyes back down to my hands.

"I – " I start.

"Hello," an older man—graying hair, thick glasses, red apron, official DQ cap—greets us in a sing-song manner.

I scoot away toward the window and hug myself.

"So, we have here a chicken strip basket with a blue raspberry Artic Rush. Mm Mmm. This yours, Miss?"

I say nothing and look down at my arms.

After a moment, Philip says, "It's hers. That is still what you usually order, isn't it, Alison?"

"Uh, yeah," I mumble.

But, the waiter does nothing.

"Can we have the food?" Philip says.

"Oh!" the waiter says and then sets down the food and takes the plastic order number. "Well, if there is anything else I— "

"Merci."

"—can get for you. Perhaps some ketchup or—"

"No," Philip says. "We're good. "

"Are you sure? I could—"

Again, I have that sensation of static electricity on my arms.

"Ben," Philip says.

And I shoot a look at Philip. He knows this guy?

Philip smiles, peering at me through the corner of his eye.

"As you see," he says. "We are fine here. Thank you. You can leave now."

"Right! Of course. Enjoy your meals and thanks for stopping at DQ," Ben says, and he continues to stand there with the same silly grin on his face. Then, his eyes narrow, his smile fades and—

"Mind if I ask you a question?" Philip says.

Ben leaves.

"Huh?" I say.

"Are you afraid of everyone?"

There is a moment where I forget to breathe. "Uh – yeah, sort of."

"Why?"

"I dunno." I open the barbecue sauce packet. "It's just how I am. It's how I've always been."

Philip shakes his head. His eyes are on my wrists and a small frown twitches on his lips. There's a hint of brown in his eyes. "Not always. When we were kids—"

"You really knew me?"

His eyes waver up to my face, so I look away. "Alison, I used to camp out in your parents' barn. Rumors spread that it was haunted because of me."

I blink and force myself to eat. Chewing takes effort. "I remember that," I say. "I mean, the rumors, but . . ."

"Alison, why can't you look me in the eye?"

I swallow. "What?"

"This whole time," he says. "You haven't really looked at me. Your eyes are always off in the distance or down."

I bite my bottom lip for a second. "Yeah. People complain about that a lot. Sorry."

He puts his elbows on the table and leans forward.

"Alison," he says. "It's been almost eight years. Maybe if you'd really look at me, it'd trigger something." He places his hands over top my shivering ones and waits for me, but I don't look up. "Why does looking at me make you so nervous?"

I shake my head quickly. I don't know why I don't pull away. There's something pleasant about his touch.

"Come on," he says. "I dare you."

Again, the air seems electrified, but now there's an inner tug to obey him.

My eyes land on his lips.

"Afraid of love at first sight or something?" he says.

I blush with embarrassment and can't help but to give a short smile. And then my eyes rise up to meet his. And—Zap! I feel it between our fingers. I feel it in my head. For a moment, I am blinded. My head aches, and then I pull free of Philip's grip, turning my head and squinting my eyes shut.

Philip laughs, "Oh, I'm that bad looking, am I?"

As quickly as it came, the pain in my head and eyes dissipate, leaving a trail of intense calm in their wake. I'm no longer shivering. I no longer feel icy cold inside. I breathe in and out and look back up at Philip's face, into his large almond-colored eyes.

My eyes run over his features, and I feel my insides melts. This is who I'm sitting across from? This is who I'm eating lunch with?

I breathe out, and then say, "What did you do?"

He gives me a crooked smile. "What do you mean?"

I blink and shake my head a few times.

"I – I feel . . . I mean . . ." I look down. "Nevermind."

But my anxiety is gone, and it's like looking at the world through a different lens.