Eugene was half convinced he's been dreaming her up these past 3 weeks. She only ever showed up in the middle of the night (and only when his dad's snores could be faintly heard through the walls so Eugene knew he was asleep, but how could she know that?) and never stayed till morning. It was funny too, not like laughing funny, but strange, how she seemed to know when his day had been particularly bad. She stayed the longest on those nights, and it was during those longer stretches he was able to stay awake with her.

She was mean, or used to be. He sort of remembered when they were kids together, she liked to kick boys in the nuts just to see their faces screw up in pain. They were never friends, the memory of her violent streak only just faded into the background of his childhood memories. Eugene can't even remember having a full conversation with her before… well, before.

She makes him swear not to tell anyone she visits, but the way she asks (every time, she makes him swear every single time) doesn't make him feel like a secret she's keeping, or like she's ashamed that she wants to see him. No, the way she says it makes him sure that it's the other way around. Because Eugene knows her story, even though she's never told him, and even though he hardly ever goes beyond his front door anymore; she's got a daddy who's meaner than she ever was, who likes to kick her just to see her cry.

The whole town thinks she ran away. That's the reason she makes him swear to silence. He doesn't know where she sleeps when she's not in his bed, and he worries about her. She just bats his concerned words away like a skeeter that buzzed too close to her ears, but he sees how her eyes soften.

The first time she showed up, someone had thrown a rock through his window that evening. His dad went to bed early, looking more tired than he had in awhile. Eugene swept up the glass and went to work on taping some cardboard over the frame, but the guilt was still thick in his chest.

"Hey you," a voice floated up from the ground beneath the window, and Eugene flinched away, thinking maybe they'd come back to hit their real target with a rock. "Hey, come back here!"

He peaked over the sill, but didn't see anyone. "I ain't gonna throw shit at you, come back," she said. Then he heard a creaking noise; she was climbing up the tree by his window. Startled and wide eyed, Eugene leaned out and tried to shush her, or get her to leave. He wasn't sure what exactly he wanted her to do, but continuing to climb toward him definitely wasn't it. She scaled the sycamore quicker than he'd thought she would, and suddenly was reaching out toward him, palm open. Before he could flinch again, she rolled her eyes and said, "Hey Root, you gonna help me in or what?"

Once she was inside, he got a clear look and remembered her name; Rosie Harwood, the girl from elementary he'd been frightened of for years. She tossed her backpack onto his desk and gestured toward the window.

"Those assholes from school, huh?"

Eugene was so bewildered he couldn't speak, but he nodded.

"Yeah, thought so. I heard 'em talking about it over by the filling station, thought I'd come see what's what. Need help?"

She picked up the duct tape and cardboard, and proceeded to correct his previous measurements.

"Um, what are you…"
"I'm helping. Ain't that what I just said?" She frowned, and began meticulously taping his window shut. Instead of trying to argue, Eugene sat down on his bed and let the situation unfold. She cursed a bit as she worked, because the tape stuck to her much as it did the cardboard, but beyond that didn't try to make any conversation with him.

Eugene was okay with that.

When she was done, she dusted her hands on her jeans and plopped down beside him.

"Well, aren't you gonna thank me?" Her smile was wide and wild, and just a little bit fake.

"Thank you," he mumbled, knowing she probably couldn't understand him anyways.

"Hey," she said, purposefully ducking down to meet his eyes. "Not everyone in the shit town hates you, okay?"

He blinked, she sighed.

"Okay, Eugene. It's okay. Maybe I'll see you around." Then she was out his bedroom door, silent as death.

Her first few visits were similar; short and to the point. She'd show up at his window, bright and elusive, like a firefly. Then she'd go. The in-between parts were always different though. Sometimes she'd drop in to tell him she beat up Howie Jones because she heard him saying rude things about Eugene, and they'd chat about everything and nothing until she breezed out when he wasn't looking. Sometimes she'd haul herself through the window with a dead look in her eye, and she'd sit on his bed while he did schoolwork, not talking except for hello and goodbye.

On the 5th night, the goodbye was different. Rosie had been pacing his room while he'd distracted himself on his computer; she stayed for 4 hours, the longest yet, but she didn't do much but pace. And touch him, whenever she passed by his chair. Fingers ghosting over his shoulder, a ruffle of his hair… He didn't say anything at the time, but he liked it. Liked knowing there was someone willing to give him affection regardless of the bad things he's done.
He heard her shrugging on her backpack (the usual signal she's about to take off) but doesn't hear the door creak. When he lifted his head, she was staring at him, eyes swirling with things he doesn't understand. She looked like she was about to say something. Her lips quirked on one side.

"I'm coming back tomorrow night," she said, then left, quiet as ever. She'd never told him when she'd visit next.

The sixth night. When Rosie climbed in his window, she held onto his helping hand. Her thumb brushed against the skin of his hand, and the look in her eyes told him she meant to. This time when she shed her back back, she also shed her jeans. Eugene blinked, as speechless as the first night she'd showed up. But her eyes were softer than he'd ever seen them, and for some reason he didn't automatically flinch when she reached up to touch the side of his face.

"Can I stay the night?" She asked.

That was the night she ran away; or so Eugene would hear afterward. His father was on the case of the missing Harwood girl, and mentioned it more than a few times. Talking about how it was a tragedy, how a promising young woman like that could disappear with no one noticing. Eugene could never connect the word 'tragedy' to that night. Not when his only memories were Rosie's breath against his skin, the way her body folded into his beneath his sheets. They remained mostly clothed throughout the night, and only slept; no other activities. But Eugene couldn't imagine anything feeling better than the tips of her fingers as she touched his mouth, and the look in her sleepy eyes as she smiled.