This Is Where the World Ends by Amy Zhang Page B

session, but she’s predictable as hell. How do you feel today? How do you feel right now? How do you fucking feel?
    She clears her throat and taps something into her iPad. “I’m glad to hear that, Micah. Do you think you mightwant to talk more about Janie today?”
    Janie? Janie is sprawled on the couch, pushing me into the armrest. Her head is in my lap and her hair spills everywhere. I am careful not to touch it. Her eyes are almost colorless and they bore into mine.
    â€œNo,” I say.
    â€œMaybe we can start with something easy? A happy memory. You must have so many of those.”
    â€œSo many,” Janie echoes. Her hand traces slow circles on my kneecap. “Us. You and me, Micah. You and me.”
    I swallow. “Stop,” I whisper. “Stop.”
    I know she isn’t here. I know she isn’t real.
    And yet her fingertip on my knee, shifting and feather light, is the only thing that keeps me grounded.
    â€œA happy memory, Micah,” Dr. Taser prompts.
    â€œThe old mental hospital,” Janie whispers. She sits up and places her lips by my ear. Her breath is warm in my hair. “Veet in Carson Eber’s shampoo. Condom balloons in Stephen Mackelry’s locker. Counting rocks at the Metaphor. Come on, Micah. You can choose anything.”
    Rocks at the Metaphor.
    Janie counting the rocks at the Metaphor because she was sure they were disappearing. Counting, counting. Ten, over and over again. Rows of ten.
    I remember the rest.
    Four weeks and two days before our birthday. It was September 10. We went on a Wednesday that week—I don’t remember why. Her parents kept texting her to go home, and she couldn’t wait until she was eighteen and didn’t have to listen. Four weeks and two days.
    â€œI think the Metaphor is getting smaller,” she said, and sat up. Her hair brushed my wrist. “I’m sure, Micah. We have to count the rocks. And again next week. And if there’s less next week, we’ll know.”
    She walked to the Metaphor and sat at its base. She looked up and her face looked like prayer for a moment before she began to count.
    â€œOne,” she said, putting one aside. “The number of balls Hitler had.”
    â€œBall,” I corrected. “And I don’t think that’s actually true.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter if it’s true,” she said. “People believe it. That’s all that matters. Two. The number of times you’ve actually let me drive you somewhere. I can’t believe you’re walking back. Just let me drive you.”
    â€œUm, no,” I said. “I’m not getting into your car.”
    â€œWhy? I have candy!”
    â€œI don’t want to die, that’s why. Janie, you were supposed to be driving slow and you still almost killed a fourthgrader just now. I’m not getting in your car.”
    â€œWhatever,” she said. “Your loss. Are you going to help me count or what?”
    I kind of just wanted to lie there, but then she threw a pebble at my forehead and said, “Count!” So I rubbed my forehead and sat up, and picked up a rock.
    â€œThree,” I said. “Um. Uh. Three. The number of, um, wishes in a lamp?”
    â€œGod, Micah, you’re so lame,” she said.
    â€œYeah, I know,” I said.
    She started to reach for a rock, but she stopped when I said that. Her head tilted to the left, just a bit. She stared at me for a long moment, and then she sucked half of her lip into her mouth and chewed on it before she said, “You’re not really, you know.”
    â€œJeez, Janie, I was just kidding—”
    â€œYou’re not lame. You’re—you’re, just, like, a decent human being, you know?”
    â€œWow,” I say. “High praise right there.”
    â€œNo, I mean . . .” She huffed out a breath. “Like most people aren’t, you know? Not really. They just pretend when