Sage exhaled. I breathed it in; the smoke was cool and fresh. Jack Griffith had told me and Sage that menthol cigarettes had fiberglass in them and were the worst ones to smoke. He and Thomas caught us smoking behind the house two summers ago. “What a nerd,” Sage had said when they’d walked away. Sage was the same age as Thomas and Jack, and she and Jack were in the same class. Sage thought he was annoying. “Smugly virtuous,” she said.

“Does your mom know yet? I hope she feels like shit.”

“Oh my God. No. She can’t find out. She’d kill Ellen for hitchhiking in the first place. We’ve all agreed not to breathe a word.”

“‘I was raised by a toothless bearded hag,’” Sage recited.

“‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash,’” I said. Sage was obsessed with Mick Jagger, and we had an ongoing joke using Rolling Stones lyrics when they fit our situation. They were coming to Philadelphia in September. Sage was going.

She pulled out a tube of ointment. “Neosporin’s for her cuts and scratches. It’s the same stuff we used last night.” She handed me a small brown pill bottle. “These antibiotics are the ones I got for the burn. It’s the second dose I didn’t end up taking, but I know they’re good for skin and infection.” Last October, up at the water tower, Sage and some others had tried to start a small campfire. Sage helped pour gasoline on the woodpile, and some of it splashed on her down jacket. When she went to strike the match, a small explosion erupted in her hands. There were flames, and someone put them out straightaway, but nobody went for help. Sage walked home with her hands and arms burned, and her dad took her to the hospital. Her hands healed perfectly, but she had puckered scars on the soft underside of her forearms, where her jacket had melted onto the soft skin. For Sage, it was like her crooked teeth: she didn’t see the scars as a blemish but as experience written on her body, marks that added to her story about herself. She didn’t want braces, and she liked her scars.

“I couldn’t find Valium. I looked everywhere. I don’t know if you should give it to Ellen, anyway. I still think we should tell Grady. He could look at her.”

“No, Sage. Please. You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Jesus, Libby—Ellen looks like she’s nine. That guy who picked her up. We should tell someone.”