But the attention would fade—it already had begun to—and so would whatever this was between Condor and me. It was never meant to last, at least not in that way. Condor and I had already made lives in different places. That’s the funny thing about home: you’ve always arrived just as soon as you stop checking the compass.

“I’m going to miss you,” Condor says now, his mouth all twisted up, like it always is when he has to say something serious.

I give him a quick hug. Barely a squeeze—anything longer, anything more, and my thoughts spin down places too murky and lonesome to understand.

He raises a hand. Framed by a huge billow of Indiana sky, he looks truly beautiful. I will always remember this moment, I tell myself, but already know that I won’t.

He pivots just before he gets to the front door as I slide into the car. “Try to stay far away from boats.”

“Try not to shoot anyone,” I call back. He blows me a kiss.

I key on the ignition.

Before heading out of town, I take a familiar turn toward my dad’s house. As I get closer I can see the same ever-so-slightly crooked split-level and the gravel driveway, but the brown and overgrown yard has been cleared of weeds. The house, with TJ’s help, shines with a fresh coat of pale blue paint.

I hardly recognize it.

This isn’t home anymore.

A For Sale sign juts from the mown lawn at an angle, optimistic, and perhaps absurdly so.

Eventually a new family will move into this house; a new child will run through its halls, stare out at the line of trees in the forest from her bedroom, ride her bike down the path to the reservoir, collect little items that are important to her, and maybe, sit down to dinner and hold hands with her parents as they say grace.

Or maybe there won’t be any kind of grace in that house again.

I roll down my window and breathe in the smell of the reservoir through the wood line for what I know will be the last and final time.

A formation of crows pinwheels on invisible currents through the sky. Together, they form an arrow, pointing north.

I turn my car to follow them.

Barrens grows smaller in my rearview mirror until, at last, it disappears.

Acknowledgments

I have a lot of people to thank for helping and supporting me through the process of writing this book. Thank you to Lauren Oliver for working tirelessly with me on Bonfire from inception to completion. Thank you for your amazing ideas and every late-night pep talk—I never could have done this without you. I also want to thank Lexa Hillyer and the entire Glasstown Entertainment team, also Stephen Barbara at Inkwell. Thank you to Molly Stern, Jen Schuster, and everyone at Crown for believing in me and for this amazing opportunity. Thank you to Dave Feldman and the rest of my team for supporting my dreams, especially Kyle Luker and Steve Caserta, each of whom must have read seventeen drafts of the book as it evolved. I also want to thank my dear friend Gren Wells for her notes and feedback and for encouraging me along the way. Thank you to my adorable sister, Bailey, for taking my author photo. Thank you to my best friend, Lauren Bratman, for cheering me across every finish line. Thank you to Rachael Taylor for the incredible book recommendations. Thank you, lastly, to Adam and Mikey for all the love at home.