““I’m like him,” she’d whispered. “You’re not,” Wren said. “I am. I’m crazy like him.” She was already having panic attacks. She was already hiding at parties. In seventh grade, she’d been late to class for the first two weeks because she couldn’t stand being in the halls with everyone else during passing periods. “It’s probably going to get worse in a few years. That’s when it usually kicks in.” “You’re not,” Wren said. “But what if I am?” “Decide not to be.” “That’s not how it works,” Cath argued. “Nobody knows how it works.” “What if I don’t even see it coming?” “I’ll see it coming.” Cath tried to stop crying, but she’d been crying so long, the crying had taken over, making her breathe in harsh sniffs and jerks. “If it tries to take you,” Wren said, “I won’t let go.””