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of sticky tape — I grabbed the familiar items and darted back down the stairs. 
    The girl’s grip on the bottom of the chair had slackened, and her head lolled to one side.  I touched her shoulder and her whole body tensed, her eyes flying open. 
    I snatched my hand away.  “Sorry.  I thought you passed out.”
    Her eyelids sank almost to closing.  “I think I did.”
    I dropped to my knees again.  The puddle of blood had become so large that I was kneeling in it, and the edges of my vision darkened again when I felt the knee of my jeans become warm and sticky.  Biting my lip, I pulled one of the packets of rubbing alcohol from the box and tore it open, drawing out the white cloth.  Without stopping to dwell on what I was about to do, I plunged the cloth into the wound. 
    “Yowwwww!” bellowed the girl.  This time she flew out of the chair — literally — and hovered about a foot above it.  “What the heck?” 
    “It’s disinfectant,” I muttered, rather preoccupied with the foot of space between her and the chair. 
    “Not cool!”
    “I have to.  Do you want to get an infection?”
    She blew out breath.  Slowly, her body dropped back into the chair. 
    I dabbed at the wound.  She hissed but remained still.  The bleeding was slowing, the blood beginning to thicken around the gaping hole in her leg.  I unwound a strip of bandage and wrapped it around her calf. 
    “Aaah,” said the girl.  “That feels cool.” 
    I ripped a piece of tape from the dispenser and pressed it to the bandage, ensuring that the wrappings were tight.  Then I tugged at her shoelaces. 
    “What are you doing?”  The girl yanked both her legs onto the chair, hugging them to her chest.  Her hand probed the bandage gingerly. 
    “Your sock is soaked in blood.” 
    Her eyes moved to her shoe, which was streaked red. 
    She jumped to her feet.  “I should go.”  Even as she said it, she swayed, clutching the table to steady herself. 
    “You look like you should lie down.”
    She backed away from me, knocking the chair away.  “Stay away from me.” 
    I took a step back, putting up my hands.  “I’m just pointing out that you look like you’re going to collapse.” 
    She stopped moving, studying me.  Her eyes were very blue, set against pale skin, and something about the delicate structure of her face made me think of fairies, nymphs, and angels.  Basically, she looked like the sort of girl who wouldn’t give me the time of day.
    I looked at my feet.
    “Okay,” she said, and my head jolted upward.  “I’ll stay.  But please don’t turn evil on me.” 
    “Deal.” 
    I led her up the stairs to my room, glancing back at her every few seconds.  She wore a plain white T-shirt and baggy jeans, and had decided not to climb the stairs, but simply to hover over them, her toes about an inch off the ground.  Her eyes followed the framed photos on the wall, which were, unfortunately, a collection of my school portraits.  As we passed the humongous portrait that marked the year of the mushroom cut, I cringed.  But the girl’s face didn’t show anything but curiosity. 
    I veered right, toward my room, and the girl followed me.  As she floated through the door, her eyes took in my neatly made bed, the clear surface of my desk, the spotless carpet, and the bare walls.
    “I love it.  It’s so normal,” she said.
    My face became hot, all of a sudden.  “Thanks.”
    In perhaps the most awkward hand gesture of my life, I motioned that the bed would probably be a good place for lying down.  Meanwhile, I pressed myself against the wall — as far away as possible — to indicate that I wasn’t some kind of creep.  She laughed and floated onto the end of the bed.  Reaching for her sneakers, she fell forward onto her knees.
    I rushed toward her, but stopped myself from helping her up — she didn’t seem to like being touched.  “Are you okay?”
    She breathed heavily, head bent forward, palms