He then pats her on the shoulder with a creepy smile. And he heads over to a workbench. A tool-laden corkboard hanging above is bordered by a series of colorful license plates. Most of them for NASCAR or football teams. Two stand out, though. Each one black and white. No color. Stamped on one plate is the text 14WORDS. On another, just the number 88.

Doesn’t mean much and she’s not sure why it would. Chris pulls her inside.

In the kitchen, Chris pours her a glass of sun tea. Bitter. She hates the way they make tea up here. Tea should be sweet, gritty with sugar. Up here it’s like the Yankees want their tea to taste like wash water.

“He knows you’re gay,” she says. “He’s gotta.”

“He knows.”

“But the way he acted—”

“He thinks being gay is like a . . . decision. Like I chose to be that way now because I’m a rebellious teenager. But eventually the vagina will overwhelm me with its miasmic vapors.”

“That sounds like the slogan for a really weird douche commercial.”

He laughs.

“So where’s your mom?” she asks.

He shrugs. “She left us when I was six.”

“That sucks.”

“Way of the world. Your daddy?”

A twinge of sadness in the real estate between her heart and her guts. “Died.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” His face sinks like a stone.

Time to change the topic. “The fourth attacker. The ones who hurt you. We still don’t know who he is?”

“I didn’t really see him much. He stayed off to the side. Hard to even call him an attacker, honestly. Just stood there in the other room, sometimes hovering near the doorway. Watching. Overseeing.”

“Couldn’t get a good look? Got any details at all?”

“No. Not a big guy. Shorter than John Elvis, for sure. Arms crossed. Any time I tried to look, they pulled my head the other direction. Mashed it into the ground.”

“Now it’s my turn to be sorry.”

He sighs. “This is bumming me out. Let’s go find Shane and talk about boys in front of him to make him uncomfortable.”

It’s been nice hanging out with Chris and Shane. Even if she doesn’t follow their conversations half the time. Blah blah blah, Firefly vs. Star Wars vs. Star Trek. Something-something Glee. Doctor Wholock. Superbatman. Faceyspaces. Something called “Linux.”

Atlanta barely understands all of it. But their babble is comforting. It’s like the warm wash of white noise. Womb sounds from fetal nerds. Helps her feel relaxed.

And like she already said, the Adderall certainly helps.