Her mother brought the statue home on May 21, a date she remembered only because it was also the day that her math teacher had scheduled a test (which she did fairly well on, though not as well as she had hoped).  Her mother had found it at a gardening store, with a sticker slapped on it that said "HALF OFF!  $35!"

It was an angel statue made of gray stone.  An old-fashioned cherub, with chubby cheeks and stumpy little wings and dainty ringlets of hair resting on its forehead (blond hair, no doubt, if it were a living human).  The angel stood on a small round platform, with one hand extended slightly, and the other hanging by its side.  It was wearing a toga of stone cloth, wrapped around its waist and falling to its knees.

"Look what I found!" her mother exclaimed, heaving the statue up the front stairs and setting it on the porch.   "He was tucked away in a corner of the store, with cobwebs in his hair, poor thing!  Nobody'd noticed him in years!"

She looked at the statue, which stared off into the middle distance, impassive.  Though someone had obviously intended for it to look sweet, the sculptor had missed the mark.  Instead of looking adorable, the statue had a somber look on its face, slightly sullen.  Probably the fact that it was immobile and stuck on a pedestal made it angry.

"Help me take him inside!" said her mother, wiping sweat off of her forehead.  "He's heavy for such a little boy."

Together, mother and daughter hefted it through the house to the back.  Her mother had it placed on the patio, where it sat in the sun.  Then, deciding that it wasn't in a good spot, they moved it again, and then again.  Finally, they set it in the small dirt path that ran along the side of the house.  It rested against the stucco wall, staring at the fence that separated their property from the neighbors.  

She didn't see it very often.  If it had been placed on the front porch, or in the backyard (where it probably belonged), she would have walked by it more; as it was, the statue's strange location made her view it rarely, and eventually forget about it almost entirely.

One day in early summer, she happened to look at the backyard, and saw a small boy playing on the lawn.   He was gray-skinned, with thick curls of gray hair hanging on his forehead.  She watched as he ran around, and then suddenly dropped to lie on the ground and stare up at the sky.

He stayed outside for the rest of the afternoon, playing with whatever caught his eye (dirt and leaves, rocks, tree bark and her mother's gardening tools).  Even though he looked like he was having fun (why else would he still be outside?) he never changed expressions; he had an intent, serious look that remained no matter what he did.

In the evening, when he disappeared from her view and didn't return, she assumed that she wouldn't see him again.  He was a strange boy, especially his skin, and he probably wouldn't be allowed to roam around alone again.  Whoever took care of him would probably worry.

She was wrong.  The next day, he was out in back again.  He spent the entire day outside, running around, and inspecting yard.  At one point, she tried calling him, to see if he was willing to talk (where was he from? Were people looking for him?  Was he sick?) but he looked at her blankly and didn't respond.

From then on, she would sometimes look out the window and see the boy, gray-skinned and long-legged, crawling spider-like around the yard.  He would pull himself up onto the old swing set (her father had installed it when she was six, but she rarely ever used it) and then skitter around the top, before launching himself off the edge and hitting the ground in a somersault.  Then he would dart over to the line of trees on the edge of the lawn (planted by previous owners to keep the sun off of the east side of the house) and stand in their shadows, looking up at their branches and plucking leaves, one by one.

He would go to her mother's vegetable garden and inspect the tomatoes and squash that sent crawling vines up the trellis.  He would sprawl out in the sun on the stone patio near the porch, or hide in the shade next to the shed at the back of the lawn.  Finally, in the evening, he would walk, sedately, to the side of the house and disappear.  When she looked for him at night (she did, one time, confused as to where such a young boy slept at night), she could find no sign of him.  There was only the statue her mother had bought, frozen in place.

As June moved into July, she saw him more and more.  He would stay outside every day, and then disappear as the sun set.  One time, she found her mother staring out the window at him.

"Oh," said her mother, "Isn't he cute?  He's been playing outside all day!  I tried to get him to come in and say hello, but I think he's shy."

They both looked out the window for a moment at the boy, who was turning a cartwheel on the lawn, still with the same cold face.  She watched him for a moment, and then went to sit down, feeling tired.

The fatigue began slowly.  It wasn't that she went from being energetic to being exhausted immediately.  Instead, it was a creeping weariness, like the air around her was thickening so that it took more and more energy to move.  At the same time, to her irritation, the hot summer air made her skin dry and crack.  First her hands and feet (she put soothing lotion on them, but it hardly helped at all), and then the skin on her knees and around her lips and eyes.

She spent a lot of time outside during the summer.  It was warm and sunny, and she couldn't imagine anything better than lounging on a deck chair in the sun, dozing and relaxing.  Sometimes her mother would comment on her newfound love of the outdoors, but mainly the attention was off of her and focused on her brother.

She didn't remember having a brother, exactly, but at the same time, she didn't remember not having one.  He seemed to have just appeared one day and inserted himself into her family, so neatly that she almost didn't notice he had done anything.  Though there weren't any old pictures of him, and she didn't remember much about him, (his birthday, his grade in school, what he liked or didn't like, his name), he had to be her brother because otherwise, why would he be living in her house?  Everyone treated them like they were siblings, how could they not be?

He was young, probably around eleven or twelve.  He had wavy, dull blond hair, and a serious, quiet face, and he sat patiently as her parents fussed over him.  Her mother exclaimed that he was growing from a boy into a wonderful young man (had he ever been a boy? She couldn't remember) and her father preened happily and her aunts and uncles were suddenly calling more, asking how the family was doing, how her brother was doing.  Her brother who she didn't remember having, who wasn't in any of the earlier family photos, but there must have been a reason for that (wasn't there?).

She didn't mind his sudden appeal.  She wasn't jealous (why would she want her relatives flitting around her like ancient, oversized moths?), and she wasn't angry.  He was just there, another person in her family, and if he didn't talk much, and he didn't do much, it was fine.

July moved into August, and her brother assimilated himself more and more into her household.  He went with them on their family camping trip to the mountains, where he fished with her father and went birdwatching with her mother and they all ate s'mores around the campfire.  He went with them to Disneyworld, and got a picture with Mickey Mouse.

Slowly, her brother's color improved.  Almost without her noticing it, his skin color changed from the sallow, yellow-gray color it originally was to a warmer, healthier pink.  His hair lost the drab touches, and turned straw blond, almost golden.  And he began to smile more.  At first, they were just little, hesitant things, sliding across his face almost too quickly to be noticed.  But soon, he would smile more openly.  One time, he even laughed.

Just as she could feel him growing closer to her family, she could feel herself growing away.  Throughout the summer, she had slowly distanced herself from her family.  It wasn't intentional, of course; she loved her parents and didn't actively try to avoid them.  But she was feeling so tired all the time, and often it felt like the only relief she had was when she was lying out in the sun outside, soaking in the warm rays.

"Are you sick?" her mother asked her one day, when she was out in the shade.  She shook her head immediately; her mom, satisfied, went back inside the house without further comment.  Once her mom was gone, however, she looked down at herself.  Her skin was still dry and rough, and now she had a strange color.  In the shade, her skin looked pale, with heavy blue-gray shadows mottling it.  Even in the sun, she noticed, she was much paler than she expected-- though she spent hours in the sun, she was barely tan at all.

It didn't bother her, however.  She just accepted that she was a naturally pale person (with naturally dry skin) and didn't try and tan.  Instead, she just sat outside, feeling the sun and the wind, resting.

She spent more and more time outside in the backyard.  Soon, it became a ritual.  She would wake up in the morning, grab something small for breakfast, and then spend the rest of the day outside.  She would only come in at nightfall, to get something for dinner and then to go to bed.  She told her parents she was too tired to go on their family day trips, that all of her friends were busy, that she was happy staying home alone, asleep. 

One day on August 12, she went outside to find that her mother had moved her favorite deck chair to make room for some small, potted trees.  The patio was full of plants, devoid of anything she could rest on.  She thought about sitting on her old swing set, but it looked rickety, and the wood was probably rotten.  She could lie on the grass, but it was damp from being watered, and she didn't want to soak her clothes.

Since there was nothing she could use in the backyard, she checked the sides of the house for something to use.  To the south, there was nothing, but to the north, she saw a possible seat.  There was a round stone resting in the dirt against the wall of her house.  It was flat and smooth on top, and if she moved it into the sun, it would be an excellent stool.

She went forward, and reached out to pick it up and carry it back onto the patio.  However, the moment she touched it, she was overcome with exhaustion.  Suddenly, she could barely move.  She sat down on the stone circle; even the action of bending her knees took almost too much energy.  Sitting, she closed her eyes, only to open them again quickly at a strange touch.  She looked down.

Creeping tendrils of rock were winding their way up her body. They extended from the pedestal she was sitting on, and climbed towards her face.  Heavy and rough, the scratched her skin and pressed down on her clothes.  Everything they touched turned hard and gray, to stone.  

She almost tried to call for help, tried to get up and run to her mother and father.  But the heavy weight of her own body pulled her back down, until she felt like gravity was going to suck her through the ground and straight into the Earth's core.  With her the last of her strength, she looked up.

Her brother was staring at her.  He wasn't smiling, now.  Instead, he had the same somber look on his face, the look she had seen the boy in the yard wearing.  The look she had seen her mother's statue wearing.

He nodded at her, once, sharp and cold.  A thank you, she supposed, for freeing him.  For taking his place, and letting him run around outside and turn cartwheels and go to Disneyworld.  She smiled, and closed her eyes, and felt the stone reach across her face and engulf her.  She had no energy to move.  The sun was warm on her face.