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under
her mentally mixed-up spell. “I’ll come with you, and I’ll bring
Dingo, too. But you shouldn’t talk to us while you’re
there.”
    She gave me an adoring look. “I’ll be
good. I just need you to be with me.”
    I scooped Dingo into my arms, and the
three of us left the room together. Hell and damnation, but I
needed her, too.

Chapter Three
     
    We entered the dining hall, where a
cafeteria-style breakfast was underway. Some of the other patients
were already seated at circular tables and others stood in line,
waiting to be served.
    Abby shuffled forward. She didn’t like
being around groups of people. She glanced back, making sure I was
there. I definitely was, right behind her in line, even if I
wouldn’t be receiving any food. Dingo squirmed in my arms and
sniffed the sausage-and-bacon-scented air.
    I could tell that Abby wanted to talk
to me. I shook my head, reminding her not to give in to the
temptation.
    Curious, I glanced around at the other
patients. Most of them looked much more normal than Abby. But I
suspected the majority of them were on the road to
recovery.
    Schizophrenia was a freaky disease,
where the victim struggled to separate reality from fantasy. It was
often confused with having multiple personality disorder or
dissociative identity disorder or whatever the fuck it was called
these days. But the fact of the matter was, schizophrenics only had
one wacked-out personality.
    Abby frowned at the tray in her hand.
She was a picky eater. I nudged her arm, encouraging her to accept
another helping of eggs.
    Once her plate was full, she looked
for a safe place to sit. She chose an empty table in the back, and
we took our seats. Dingo settled in on my lap, and Abby slipped him
pieces of meat when no one was watching.
    Truthfully, no one seemed to care what
she was doing. Abby was so antisocial, so detached from everyone
else, that sometimes it seemed as if no one at The Manor saw her,
almost as if she was as invisible as I was.
    Even the staff let her be. Abby had
been in therapy for most of her life, but she was a fairly new
patient here, so they weren’t putting pressure on her. For now, all
that was required of her was to be part of the daily routine, even
if she chose to stay in the background.
    I guess they figured that some of it
would sink in, helping her develop at least a few of the skills she
needed to manage her disease, no matter how minimal those things
seemed to the rest of us. But for someone like Abby, remembering to
shower and put on clean clothes was a major ordeal.
    I wished she was healthy, and I was
real. In my dreams, I would become rich and famous, and Abby and I
would move in together, get married, and raise a family.
    How amazing would our kids be? Little
rockers going on the road with their mama and daddy.
    My heart clenched with the
thought.
    I didn’t have parents. Abby had never
given me a family in Room 105. It hadn’t occurred to her to create
anyone for me.
    Sweet, scatterbrained Abby. I would
never forget the first time I appeared to her, the very moment she
brought me to life. She was nine, and I was eleven, and she was
sitting alone on her bedroom floor. Although her room had been
typically girlish, with pastel colors, lacy curtains, and stuffed
animals all over the bed, she was listening to Mötley
Crüe.
    Music that darkened the
environment.
    Home Sweet Home was the song that had been playing. A haunting
ballad. Lyrics that would come to define me.
    When she’d glanced up and saw me
standing off to the side, we stared at each other. Instantly drawn
to her, I’d lifted my hand and waved in a silent greeting. She’d
waved back, waggling her fingers and making me smile.
    I thought she was weirdly cute, with
her matted hair and enormous blue eyes. It hadn’t occurred to me
back then that I was going to fall in love with her when we got
older.
    After I walked over to her, she said,
“Your name is Smiling Seven.”
    I wasn’t wild about the name