Sex was best, for feelings of frustration and fear and depression, but when it wasn’t available I’d settle for food. I drove to McDonald’s and went to the drive-through and the man who handed over my burger and french fries had his arms densely tattooed, a giant squid on one forearm and a sperm whale on the other, forever locked in battle, and I wanted him so bad I had to roll up my window fast before I said something stupid.

And then, miracle of miracles: Connor called me.

“Hey!” I said, shivering with anticipation, but as soon as he spoke I knew this would not be an intimate encounter.

“Come over,” he said, his voice small and frail-sounding. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Five minutes later I was back at his house. My head spun.

“I won’t even bother to ask you to keep this a secret,” he said, when I found him in his backyard. “I know you couldn’t.”

I sat down in the dirt next to him. Handed him my french fries without thinking about it. He didn’t look up at me. “I should start at the beginning,” he said. “He calls it the Induction Ceremony.”

“Sheffield?” I asked.

Connor nodded. “He gives you a task. You have to do it.”

It was dark out. I could barely see Connor’s face. The treehouse was a black shape in the sky above us, blotting out the stars.

“A task like flooding Jewel Gomez’s house,” I said. “Or spray-painting fucking swastikas on a Jewish girl’s house.”

Connor nodded.

Of course. It was that simple. Sheffield was a manipulative little fucker who liked to be in control. For some reason, he had the entire football team wrapped around his finger. They danced like his puppets, and he got off on every second of it.

“Once it’s done, his task—once he’s confirmed that it was acceptable—he certifies you as Inducted. And then you get to choose the next person to Induct.”

“Shit,” I said.

Thunder boomed in the distance. “Storm coming,” Connor said. “Saw it on the news just now.”

“Why are you’re telling me all this?” I said.

He looked up at me, and even in the dim light from his kitchen windows I could see the pain in his face. “Because I just got my assignment today.”

I grabbed his arm, squeezed it. “Can’t you refuse?” I asked.

“I thought I could,” he said. “My dad is the coach, for Christ’s sake. But they chose me, and Sheffield made the assignment.”

“He tells you what to do?”

“Not what. Who. Who to target. The task you do, it’s up to you—although Sheffield can veto it if he thinks you’re letting someone off easy. It just has to be directed at someone specific.”

“Like Jewel Gomez,” I said. “So? Who is your assignment?”