“So why are you hanging out with them?”

“Some of them are my friends,” he told me. He looked like he had more to say, but left it at that.

“What about Bobby Eckels?” I asked, pointing to him. He stood at the edge of the firelight, sharing a bottle of something stronger than beer with a friend. Watching me.

Sheffield laughed. “A bit of an idiot, isn’t he?”

“I have no idea.”

“He’s a bit of an idiot.”

“This is a great conversation.”

Sheffield laughed again. He laughed a lot, seemed like, but rarely because things were funny. More like because it bought him time—time to think of something to say. “Why the football team, Ash?”

“School spirit,” I said, because I had anticipated the question, and practiced my response. Nothing further; no expression on my face.

“Some of the guys were suspicious. You’re not the school spirit type. When was the last football game you went to?”

Answering his questions would only lead me further onto his turf. “I appreciate that other people appreciate it.”

He nodded his head, like a chess player whose opponent has made a particularly skilled move. I stood up, and raised my camera, and aimed it at Bobby. Sickly green flames swirled around him. He saw me, and his face broke into a snarl.

“You don’t like to get your picture taken,” I called to him, across the fire.

“I don’t,” he said, and even on just those two words I could hear how drunk he was.

“Why not?”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“A fan of the team,” I said. “And a friend of Jewel’s.”

He lost his cool completely. His mouth went slack. His eyes widened. He took a step back.

“You used to be friends with Jewel,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

A couple other guys around the campfire had stopped talking, to better pay attention to us. I kept on.

“You ever go to her house?”

“Calm down,” Sheffield said to me, standing up. “Obviously Bobby is still very upset about what happened. Poor Jewel.”

“Where were you?” I asked. “When it happened?”

Sheffield put a patronizing hand on my shoulder and said, “Shhhh.”

Bobby breathed a little easier, with Sheffield coming to his rescue. So I raised my camera, and took a picture.

“And what happened, exactly?”

He made a choking noise in his throat, and I took another picture.

“Someone broke in,” I said. “Someone who knew her.”

“I . . . ,” he said, but didn’t finish the sentence. I took two more pictures.

“Screw you,” he hollered, and he sounded like a little kid—but like a guilty little kid, one who’d gotten caught when they didn’t think they would. He took a step toward me, and stumbled, and fell to his knees. Everyone laughed.