We collapse on a bench, and I hold Fluffernutter’s leash tight. I worry about him jumping off the edge. Below us stretches this whole silly city, clusters of tall buildings and little houses and the disorganized, smoggy sprawl. LA in all its ugly, beautiful glittering mirage. I turn east to where Cesar lives, and I picture him at home with his mom, her making him a pancake breakfast; I do not think about his list, how his mom presumably crossed out my old number in Sharpie and replaced it with my new one, like I asked her to over text when I explained I’d be away from the Center for a while. How it’s getting wrinkled in Cesar’s pocket because I keep catching him rubbing his fingers over the edges.

“You were right,” I say, taking in an extravagantly deep breath. “I needed to get out.”

“Can you repeat that please? Did you say I was right?” Isla asks, pretending to gasp. “We should take a selfie to commemorate the moment.”

Isla whips out her phone, and in a sudden frenzy, it beeps and vibrates in her hands. Cell service is spotty up here, so this happens sometimes: that frantic flurry of missed calls and text messages all at once.

“What is it?” I ask. I left my phone at home because I am friendless, so no one calls me but Kenny. Since it’s Sunday, I figured he’d take the day off.

I scoot next to Isla to read over her shoulder, but she gets up and walks away. She paces back and forth, holding a finger to her ear so she can hear what must be multiple voice mails. Who leaves voice mails anymore?

“What’s going on?” I ask again as I read her body language. Tight and overly controlled. My panic mounts, but Isla ignores me. She folds over, head between her knees. I get up and rub her back and she makes a strangled noise. I go through the list in my head, every imaginable disaster, which is silly, because lately all of the disasters have been unimaginable. “Are you okay? What’s happening, Isl? Tell me.”

She straightens herself, clears her throat.

“We have to go. It’s Hudson.” My go-to disaster, which somehow over the last few months has receded to the end of my worry list. I haven’t been thinking about my half brother, and maybe in the forgetting, in the not tending to those fears, I willed the worst. “He overdosed.”

—

We run down the mountain, dirt kicking up our legs, sweat turning it to mud, Fluffernutter barking beside us. He thinks our sudden urgency is a game, and he wags his tail with enthusiasm, like our panic is fun. As we go down the hill, desperate for full cell service, Isla chants over and over, with each step: Be okay, be okay, be okay.