The dream was all lines and noise. Screeching crayon lines against paper, the sound of the garage door opening over and over. I woke up before my alarm, my mouth dry. The first thing I saw was the ceiling thumbprint stain. It was still there.
The morning routine was a script. Shower. Dress. Grab the granola bar from the box on the counter. My mom was already wiping down the spotless kitchen island.
"You're up early," she said.
"Couldn't sleep."
"You're not on your phone in bed, are you? The light messes with your circadian rhythm."
"No."
She nodded, satisfied. I saw her glance at the mudroom, waiting for my dad's footsteps. He was already gone. "Big meeting," she said to the empty space. "Before dawn."
Alex stumbled into the kitchen, his hair a chaotic mess. He smelled like laundry that had been left in the washer too long. He went straight for the coffee pot.
"Library close late?" I asked, my voice neutral.
He shot me a look over his shoulder, part warning, part gratitude. "Yeah. Tons of reading."
Mom placed a bowl in front of him. "Oatmeal."
He grimaced but sat down. I watched him stir brown sugar into the paste. His knuckles were scraped. I didn't ask.
The walk to school felt longer. I looked at every ladder I saw. There was one leaning against the side of the Chen's house, a painter's ladder, compact and yellow. It looked nothing like the one in my drawing. I felt stupid.
First period was Algebra II. The numbers swam on the board. I spent the time doodling in the margin again. This time, I drew the kitchen table from last night. Two stick figures, far apart. A speech bubble with no words.
Liam slid into the empty seat next to me just as the bell rang. "You look tired," he said.
"I am tired."
"Deep." He opened his binder. "You hear about the gym?"
My pencil stopped. "What about the gym?"
"Mr. Hendricks, the maintenance guy. Fell off a ladder yesterday afternoon after school. Right by the east wall."
The air in my lungs felt cold. "Is he okay?"
"Broke his arm, I think. My dad heard it on the scanner." Liam shrugged. "Clumsy."
The teacher started talking about polynomials. The words were just sound. I saw the ladder in my head. The aluminum one from yesterday. The man testing the rung. The drawing in the box. A blue shirt. The maintenance workers wore blue shirts.
It was a coincidence. It had to be. Falls happened. Ladders were involved. My brain was just connecting dots that didn't need connecting. That's what I did. I connected dots. It didn't mean anything.
At lunch, I pushed my food around. The cafeteria was a roar of voices and clattering trays. Chloe texted me.
Chloe: Mom says you're quiet. Everything okay?
I typed back.
Me: Everything's normal.
I put my phone face down. Normal. The coincidence was a pebble in my shoe. A small, persistent annoyance.
After school, I didn't go straight home. I walked to the east side of the gym. There was yellow caution tape tied between two traffic cones, fluttering in the breeze. It cordoned off nothing, just a patch of asphalt. I looked up. The ladder was gone. There was no mark, no sign anything had happened.
I turned to leave and almost bumped into Mrs. Alvarez, the art teacher. She was carrying a large flat box.
"Mitchell. You're far from the art wing," she said, adjusting her grip.
"Just walking."
Her eyes followed mine to the caution tape. "Nasty business. Glad it wasn't worse." She shifted the box again. "These are the old art show portfolios from the storage closet. Water leak. Have to dry them out." She nodded at the box. "Some are probably older than you are."
Old art. The words hooked into me. "Can I help?"
She looked surprised, then relieved. "Sure. Take this one to my room? I have another box."
I took the cardboard box. It was lighter than it looked. I carried it to the art room, its familiar smell of clay and turpentine washing over me. I set it on a cluttered table. A few portfolios had slipped partway out. The top one had a name in neat block letters on the side: J. Rivera, 2008.
The next one had a name written in a familiar, looping script. Chloe Brown, 2017. My sister's. I shouldn't look. I flipped the cover open.
Inside were charcoal figure studies, precise and careful. And beneath them, a smaller, separate sheet. A childish drawing in crayon. A car with a big, frowning sun above it. In the corner, in my mom's handwriting: Mitchell, age 5.
My drawing. In my sister's portfolio.
Mrs. Alvarez came in with the other box. "Lifesaver, Mitchell. Thanks."
"Mrs. Alvarez? Why is my drawing in here?"
She peered over. "Oh, that. Chloe was in that big sister mentorship program her freshman year. She helped a kindergartener with an art project for a day. You, I guess! She insisted on keeping it. Said it was her good luck charm for the art show." She smiled. "It's sweet."
I looked at the clumsy car, the sad sun. Chloe had kept it. Chloe, who was always so busy, so perfect, so ahead.
"Yeah," I said. "Sweet."
I walked home faster than usual. The coincidence pebble in my shoe felt bigger. I went straight to my room and pulled the box back out of the closet. I didn't look at the falling man drawing. I dug deeper.
Near the very bottom, I found it. On a sheet of green construction paper. A red car. It was at a weird angle. One of its wheels wasn't touching the ground. Above it, I had drawn a big, yellow sun with a black frown. The lines were frantic, just like the ladder drawing. I'd pressed so hard the green paper was worn thin in places.
I sat on the floor, my back against the bed. I held the two drawings. The falling man. The red car with the frowning sun.
Two coincidences. That was a pattern. Patterns were data. I observed data.
From downstairs, I heard the front door open. My dad's voice, low and weary. My mom's answering murmur. The normal evening sounds.
I put the drawings back in the box. I put the box back in the closet. I didn't push it all the way under the sweaters. I left it where I could see the corner of the cardboard.
I needed more data.