He doesn’t answer, and her question creeps through me, cold and unwelcome. Is she right? Are we all just starting to lose it? Am I reading myself wrong about all of this?

I shiver, hitching my bag higher and pushing the thought out. “I’m getting in the car. I want to charge a phone.”

I’m at the door, but Harper’s half blocking the back door with her body, her arm outstretched to wave Brecken forward.

“Come on. Let’s get going,” she tells him.

I duck in front of her to get in. There’s a scrabble of feet beside me. A sharp yelp. Something jerks my bag, pulling me backward. Harper. One strap slides off my shoulder, and my bag flips. They both fall—Harper and the bag.

I flail, desperately reaching, but it’s too late. Harper’s knees hit the snow as something dark and heavy slides out of my backpack. My fingers just brush the edge, but Harper reaches, too, bumping my hands with her elbow. My laptop lands with a quiet crack on the snowy pavement.

And Harper meets my eyes.

December 24

Mira,

You should have known me. I stood behind you in line at the gate. Do you realize how close we were on that bridgeway? Even closer on the plane.

I watched you message your parents and sketch in your notebook. I heard you sigh when you waited in the aisle for the man with the oversized suitcase.

You looked at me, Mira—right at me. I was sure in that moment it was fine. I would hand you these letters. Our eyes would meet and all of these long months apart wouldn’t matter.

We would be together again.

But you didn’t see me.

You didn’t see me.

And I’m going to make you pay.

Yours

Chapter Twenty-Four

It looks completely fine. Back in the car, the commotion wakes Kayla and draws us all into a tight circle around me in the back seat. I brush off every bit of snow I can see and turn the laptop over and over, trying to assess the damage. I find two cracks on one of the hinges that allows the lid to open and close. It’s unremarkable, a small diagonal fracture in the case. It could be okay.

“It landed on its corner,” Harper says, still brushing snow from her knees. “I’m so so sorry. I tried to grab it.”

“Is it working?” Josh sounds worried.

“It’s got a light,” I say, pressing the power button. I hear a high-pitched hum winding up, and then it stops abruptly. The power button flashes yellow, yellow, yellow.

My heart sinks.

“Does it always flash like that?” Brecken asks. He’s still outside to give me room, but he’s leaning in.

“If so, that’s annoying as hell,” Kayla says.