The Well's End - Softcover

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"How's Will?" someone shouts. "And Tom."

Tom. His name was Tom. The boy who bled on my jacket.

Devin doesn't say anything, just puts his hand to his eyes to block the light. Someone else calls out, "What did you see past the gate, Dev?" This rouses him. He moves his hands and speaks in a voice that needs to be lubricated. There's blood on his teeth, and someone gasps.

"Soldiers. Wearing those suits. Full mask and everything. A tank."

Everyone gets really quiet. A couple of people discreetly back away from him.

"They're dead." His voice cracks.

The Well's End

The Dark Water

WHAT'S THE FIRST THING YOU REMEMBER?

I've heard the Question before. Who hasn't? But when someone asks me, the Question has a different meaning. It's not often that the whole world knows who you are, has known you forever, has given you a nickname. Baby Mia. They still call me that. Strangers still call me that. Baby Mia, who fell down the well. Like a nursery rhyme. When someone asks about my first memory, what they really want to know is do you remember the well?

Do I remember the well? I was four years old in 1999, when I became famous. I broke my arm, two ribs and my nose-it's still a little crooked. People tell me that they honked their horns when I was pulled free, that they hung the picture of me bundled and bandaged on their fridge for years. Baby Mia, who fell down the well.

But truthfully, there is no memory. Only darkness. Considering how deep I was, maybe darkness is the memory. Blackness, water up to my knees, lucky it was August and it didn't rain, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lowered in a Pink Power Rangers lunchbox. My memories are the stories everyone tells, the stories about where they were, what they were doing, about the time Baby Mia fell down a well.

Reporters come and go. When my mom died (blizzard, pine tree), at least a dozen inquiries came through. As if what I most wanted to do after my mother's funeral was talk about my stint underground. The funny thing is, underground was all I could think about. My mother was going to be cold down there, dark, with no one to save her and with no one watching and holding vigils and honking horns and crying.

I'm sure that's what reporters wanted to hear from me.

But I admit that something about this reporter feels different. For one, he looks different. No wrinkled, collared shirt underneath a wrinkled beige sweater. No notebook and no smell of fast food. He's clean-shaven, his cheeks looking almost crisp, like a banker. But he's not in a suit. Instead, he's wearing a tight fleece, hiking boots and dirty jeans, as if he's just returned from a stroll in the woods. His brown hair recedes hesitantly back up his forehead, leaving a small tuft up front. He smiles gently enough, and he has a notepad and paper, but he hasn't pulled out a recorder of any sort. I'm not sure I remember ever doing an interview where there wasn't a recorder. Staring at him, I find myself uneasy and keep wiggling in my chair. He seems distracted, uninterested in me and the story, which, I'm embarrassed to say, is making me jealous. We've been sitting here on a cloud-covered Thursday, in the conference room of the main faculty offices at my boarding school, Westbrook, for about ten minutes now, quietly bouncing our legs. We're waiting on my father.

The reporter-his name's Blake Sutton-glances at his watch and sighs, then pulls himself to his feet and goes to examine the class photos strung evenly along the walls.

"Your father is in one of these photos, isn't he?"

These are his first words since nice to meet you. At least we're done with the staring contest. "That's right," I say, pointing down a few frames from where he's standing. "Class of '78."

Mr. Sutton shuffles over, bends and squints at the photo. He shakes his head a little and looks back at me, then t