“Just look for Clipper,” said Carol. “It should be right up here somewhere.”

“There,” Caddie said, pointing. “Just past that doughnut shop.”

Carol turned on her blinker, made the turn. They were heading uphill.

Caddie felt as if she were being walked to the gallows. She didn’t know why the idea of staying with her father was so unsettling, but it was. And it was more than just because she’d never spent more than a few days with him. Something about it felt like exile. She was removed from everything she knew, everything she enjoyed. Everything that made her her.

She felt like Dorothy, dropped into unfamiliar territory. Only no good witch would appear in prom drag to help her out. No clicking together of her heels would send her home. She was on her own.

She reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and found the bottle. After deftly unscrewing the lid, she tipped the bottle until a single pill fell into her palm. A sip from the bottle of water she’d been nursing since their last stop for gas, and the pill slid down her throat. Work fast, she pleaded, waiting anxiously for the pharmaceutical security blanket to enfold her.

“Here we are,” Carol said, making another turn. “Look for number eighty-seven.”

Caddie didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to know which of the small, ugly houses was to be her prison for the next three months. She didn’t want to see the dull faces, like boiled potatoes, she was certain peered out at her from behind bleary windows. She felt as if she might be sick. With trembling fingers, she reached over and locked her door.

CHAPTER 3

Charlie looked down at the sea. Because he was standing on a rock not twenty feet from shore, he didn’t have to look far. In fact, he had only to look down at his own feet, which were currently covered by water up to the ankles. Then the wave swept back and he was looking at his wet boots.

He didn’t feel right. Something inside of him was making him sick, like he’d eaten a bad oyster or drunk too much beer. Actually, he had drunk too much beer. But that wasn’t it. Neither was it an oyster churning in his belly. It was something else, something that originated in his blood and poisoned every part of him.

His head hurt. He thought he might be sick. Looking at the sea moving back and forth, he thought for sure he might be sick. But there was only beer inside of him. Beer and poisoned blood. Nothing to speak of, but enough to kill him, he was sure of that.

All you gotta do is jump in, he told himself. Just step off.

He couldn’t swim. He’d tried once, when he was maybe nine or ten. But all he’d done was throw his arms around and make a lot of noise. Water had gone into his mouth and nose, and he’d started to choke. Someone—maybe Pete—had had to run in and pull him out. He remembered the taste of sand when he’d pressed his face into the beach, happy just to be alive.