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understanding reality would drive anyone insane. But it seemed more important than that. Would she get to him in time to find out what it was? Time. Ha. Her old poem, the one she was writing when Harry went berserk in the auditorium a few months ago, seemed to cling to her hair.
    Pushing the present from six until twelve,
    Sisyphus times his own prison
    Prison. Like Windfree. What would she do if she got there? Free him? It was terrible to think of him locked up, to imagine him in a straitjacket trying to talk to people who thought he was just delusional. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The images stuck to her heart as if they were covered with glue. Maybe the meds would have calmed him down enough so that he’d be able to explain things to her.
    What could it possibly be like to be caged like that, surrounded by people who couldn’t—who wouldn’t —believe you?
    She walked into her room and spotted a plastic Sears bag on her desk. When she upended it, the heavy-duty window locks her father had bought thudded onto her desk.
    A little like this?
    But her window wasn’t locked yet. It was still half-open. A cool late autumn wind wafted in, caressing her face and neck, giving her a chill. Visible above the apartment buildings across the street, the glow of the evening sky beckoned.
    What should she do?
    Siara had her hands on the window. She was ready to push up, open it all the way, and hit the fire escape. She could take the bus, hitch. She could make it.
    I’m coming, Harry!
    But the sound of a key in a lock stopped her.
    Turning to the hallway, she peeked at the front door to the apartment. A world away, a smartly dressed woman in her mid-forties, who looked like Siara but with carefully coiffed hair, appeared. She carried a briefcase and a well-worn smile. Not seeing Siara in the dim hallway, she paused at the kitchen door and looked in. As she spoke to her husband, the smile remained, but her eyes crinkled.
    â€œAny new crises?” she asked cautiously. “Murder arrest maybe?”
    â€œNo,” Siara heard her dad answer. “Not yet. And, as I was told, the charges were dropped.”
    Siara stepped back into that world and gave her mother a little wave. “Hi, Mommy.”
    Mom’s smile widened. It seemed tired but wise. “Are we working on a new crisis?”
    â€œNot intentionally,” she lied.
    â€œNot until after my demo tomorrow night, right?” she asked. She stepped up and pushed the plum hair gently back on Siara’s head.
    â€œRight,” Siara echoed.
    â€œSweetie,” Mom said, “I understand if you want to stay home and rest, but I sure could use you for an hour at the school. It might help you take your mind off things.”
    â€œYou should go,” her father chimed in. “Beats moping around.”
    â€œFine,” Siara said. “I’ll go. I’m happy to help, Mom.”
    Her mother kissed her on the forehead. “Let me get some things together. Give me twenty minutes.”
    Siara eyed her father, who offered her his own, weaker smile, then headed back to her room. Just as she closed her door, she heard him say, “I really think it’s time we got a bigger table.”
    With the door creating the illusion of privacy, she looked at her little room: the pine desk in the corner by the window, loose papers covering the spot her footprint left the last time she snuck out; the short bookshelf with thick white paint that held sundry volumes—an ancient Poe, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King , some dog-eared Dickinson, an illustrated Rumi, collected Bishop, TS Eliot. Her mother had bought her some Whitman a while back, but so far, he’d just given her a headache.
    She thought about seeking some solace there, in the poems, but her mind was still locked on Harry. The longer she left him alone, the more she was sure something bad would happen.
    She couldn’t get to Harry tonight, no