There was no doubt about it: Camus was absolutely bonkers. That was the only explanation for her latest picture, a crocodile riding a toucan. Amy had no earthly idea what the hell it was supposed to signify, but it was clearly the product of a mind broken beyond repair.

It had been a little over two months since Amy's interloping interlocutor had stolen into the secret room and vandalized her masterpiece, and in that time, the two had become fast friends. This was somewhat surprising given their unspoken agreement to communicate almost entirely via the medium of whiteboard doodles, but Camus had a knack for conveying her thoughts via simple images. Of course, that was before she went insane.

The more Amy thought about it, the less certain she became. After all, since when did insane people go to the library? Maybe it was a test? Maybe the picture really was as nonsensical as it appeared to be, and she wanted to see how Amy would respond. That made sense. Of course, it meant that her only friend was a total paranoiac, but that was better than being crazy. She knew how to deal with paranoia.

###

Amy treasured her friendship with Camus. No words meant no real names, which meant she could be anyone or at least anyone who spent all their free time in the library. Amy wanted desperately to be anybody but herself, so this worked out to be good enough for most days. Unfortunately, today was not like most days.

In the month since the crocodile incident, Amy had come under increased pressure from Carol—apparently, librarians couldn't be heroes. Amy couldn't see why librarians were so different from lawyers and made the mistake of voicing her confusion. This had resulted in her inability to spare the time for her visits to the library. It had been almost a week since her last trip to the secret room, and the messages from Camus were really piling up. Amy erased the latest, an hourglass with an almost empty upper globe, and pondered what she was going to say. What she could say.

Amy needed to talk to somebody. If she didn't vent soon, she was liable to explode. Unfortunately, she had nobody she could go to. Vicky was great but couldn't really understand what it was like not to know if her parents loved her. Of course, they loved her. Who wouldn't? Camus was also out since she needed to say more than the limits of the relationship would allow. Amy sighed and drew the only thing she could think of: a woman's face with a conspicuously blank space where her mouth ought to have been.

When she returned the next day, she found a cheap notebook taped beneath a reasonable facsimile of The Scream.