I whisper the words, but they are still jarring in the quiet of the bathroom. I shiver again. God, what if Kayla is right about me? What if I’m a mess just like the rest of them?

But someone in our group is more than a mess. Someone is dangerous.

Too many things have gone wrong to blame this all on coincidence. My dad always says if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck—it’s probably a duck.

Or in this case, sabotage.

The word feels ridiculous, but what else fits? Someone obviously doesn’t want us to get to where we’re going. But who? And why?

I turn on the tap out of habit. Water hisses down the drain in a sibilant rush. Should I try to talk Joyce into letting me stay here in the bar? Should I try to tell someone what’s happened so far—what I’m afraid of?

The police.

I turn the water off and take a deep breath. All of this is about to solve itself. The police will come, and I’ll explain all the wacky things that have gone down. Better yet, I’ll tell them I’m only in high school and that will be that. They’ll whisk me off to some tiny police station in a warm cruiser. Probably wearing an officer’s coat. Maybe they’ll even offer me some hot cocoa. No more riding with these strangers. No more wondering if all these little misfortunes and my suspicions add up to something sinister.

The door bangs open and my made-for-TV fantasy bursts like a soap bubble. Harper storms in, eyes blotchy and red. I see those spots of blood on her white shirt. She doesn’t look so crisp now. She looks like something terrible has happened. Or like she knows something terrible is coming.

Harper meets my eyes and stops short.

I think of her and Brecken—all those close conversations. Josh said there’s something between them, but what? Why the hell would either of them not want to get home?

I clear my throat. “Are you okay?”

“I just need a minute,” Harper says, voice rough.

“If you need to talk—”

“I don’t,” she snaps. And then she gives me a tight, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I just need a minute. Okay?”

“Sure.”

Josh is waiting just outside the restrooms, leaning heavily on his crutches.

“Is she all right?” he asks.

“I don’t know. She didn’t talk. She said she needed a minute.” At the bar, Joyce is watching us with a frown. Then her eyes flick back to the guy at the end of the bar. He’s finished his drink, but still seems to be staring at his lap. I wonder if he’s asleep.

Between this guy and Kayla, it’s like a sleeping epidemic has hit central Pennsylvania.