True: An Elixir Novel by Hilary Duff

Sage.
    It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Sage is out there in the world and he’s not thinking clearly. He could do anything. He could get hurt. Any minute now, the police could knock on my door and tell me there’s been a horrible accident. What am I supposed to do, just sit here with ice on my head and wait for it to happen? Maybe I should take my mom’s car and try to find him.
    Except I have no idea where he went. I don’t even know what direction he turned when he left the property. There’d be a one-in-a-million chance that I’d find him. Better for me to wait and be here when he comes back.
    If he comes back.
    He’ll come back. And when he does, we’ll get him well.
    No, I’ll get him well now . I’ll do research. I have a different perspective from Ben; maybe I’ll find something he missed. I’m still bleeding a little, so instead of going to the computer, I pull out my cell phone and Google “mythology soul transfers.”
    The search returns “about 21,300,000 results,”and none of the top hits have anything to do with Sage’s situation.
    So much for my fresh perspective; the Internet is no help at all.
    Now what?
    All I can do is wait.
    By sunset I’ve chewed every one of my fingernails down to the quick, and I’m pacing the house in a panic. When my cell phone rings with a stranger’s last name on the ID, I’m positive it’s someone who found Sage’s car wrapped around a tree and heard my number as Sage recited it with his last breath. . . .
    “Hello?”
    “Clea . . . it’s me.”
    “Where are you? Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine, but . . . I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. I borrowed someone’s phone. Maybe she can tell you where I am. . . .”
    At the word “her” I imagine some gorgeous siren taking advantage of the hot amnesiac wandering the streets, but the woman’s voice sounds at least eighty years old.
    “Are you Clea?” she asks. “This young man seems to be lost.”
    “I know. Can you tell me where you are?”
    “He’s here at the diner. Wandered in looking sad and confused.”
    “Yes. Which diner?”
    “Attached to the bowling alley. It’s a slow night, no league play, otherwise I never would have had the time to chat with your young man. He ordered a piece of pie and some coffee, and the minute I served it up, I said to myself, ‘Enid, something with this boy isn’t quite right.’ ”
    If I could reach through the phone and grab the information out of her, I would. I struggle not to scream and ask, “Please, just . . . Where is the diner? Can you give me the address?”
    She does. Sage is in Rhode Island less than two hours away, so he wasn’t driving the entire time he was gone. I get the address and promise to get there as soon as I can.
    “You do that,” Enid says. “And be sure to bring a couple dollars. He doesn’t have a wallet with him, and I mentioned he had some coffee and pie, right?”
    “Yes, you did,” I say, grabbing a jacket and my mom’s car keys. “I’ll pay for it.”
    I hang up before she can say anything else, then program the address into Mom’s navigation system. An hour and a half later, I pull up to Min’sPins, a decrepit bowling alley with a half-lit neon sign. I can see into the attached glass-walled diner. The only one at the counter is Sage, his shoulders slouched over an untouched soup and sandwich. An octogenarian in a uniform that looks like a French maid outfit bustles between him and the three couples sitting in the booths. That must be Enid.
    My car isn’t in the parking lot.
    I run inside, and the look of despair on Sage’s face when he sees me breaks my heart. I take his face and kiss him, feel the stubble against my skin.
    “Hi,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
    The lump on the back of my head throbs a little as I think about it. “You remember?”
    He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t really know how I got here. I’m so sorry. And I love you. I