“I totally get it,” Brecken says, but his matching black bags are so pristine they look like they were purchased in the airport, so I doubt he does.

Josh goes through a miserable-looking process of balancing on one crutch and then the other to remove his cross-body messenger bag. I gesture vaguely in case he’d like help, but he moves faster, his neck flushed. I hope he doesn’t think I was rushing him.

“They let you rent this?” Kayla asks Harper. Brecken has her frayed floral duffel bag now, too.

Harper—texting furiously on her phone—doesn’t look up. “For enough money, they’ll let you rent anything.”

“Miss Chung?”

Harper glances at the approaching attendant from the rental car company. He’s holding a large black duffel bag and loops of silver chain. Snow chains for the tires. I glance outside of the parking garage, where I can still see flurries. It isn’t even sticking, so this feels like serious overkill, but the attendant is all the-apocalypse-draws-nigh about it.

He explains how to put them on the tires and then points out a shovel and flares. Where the heck does this guy think we’re going? Northern Siberia? Wherever it is, the dude is quite determined to get us there safely. Plus, he’s fawning in a way that makes me wonder exactly how much money Harper dropped on this rental.

Still, it looks large and safe and—most importantly—free, so I keep my mouth shut.

Brecken adjusts my backpack beside his bags and Kayla’s, and then he shifts Harper’s duffel in for the best fit. And Brecken might have a nice bag, but Harper’s has an emblem that tells me hers cost more than my car. It’s all buttery leather and smooth brass hardware.

Finally happy with the luggage arrangement, Brecken steps back, but Kayla leans in to shove something in her backpack and make her own rearrangements. I watch, wondering how I’d paint her. She’s like an overexposed photograph: white skin, pale eyes, and hair so blond it looks silvery under the strange gray parking garage lights.

When she turns around and catches me staring, I offer a brief smile and hope I don’t look embarrassed.

“You’re from San Diego?” she asks me.

“Pittsburgh originally. My da—” I cut myself off with a cough. Harper thinks I’m in college. If she finds out I’m not, I don’t know if she’ll keep her offer standing and I’m not taking chances. “Sorry. I’m in school out there. You?”

She shrugs, looking off to the side. “Something like that.”

“Where do you live in Pittsburgh?” Brecken asks me once the luggage is all arranged.

“Beltzhoover. You?”

“Edgeworth,” he says, which makes sense given his high-end jeans and pristine shoes. But if he’s judging my inferior zip code, he doesn’t show it.