Eli Marrow was seventeen, and at his school everyone knew him without anyone actually knowing him.

That is worse than invisibility. Invisibility leaves you alone. The wrong reputation follows you like a dog somebody else fed with their lies. At Hawthorne High, outside a small town on the North Shore of Long Island, they called him all kinds of things. Freak. Loser. Metal boy. Graveyard Eli. One time a guy from the lacrosse team called him future serial killer and then laughed so hard at his own joke that Eli thought that if justice exists in this world, it should probably look something like falling down a staircase in front of a crowd.

He said nothing.

He rarely did.