The superior edge is back, and that crush is looking less likely. I shake my head fast. “No, not at all. Sorry.”

“Are you sure?” He’s still wearing that smile.

“Very sure,” I say, turning toward Harper.

Harper’s propping the door open with her shoulder, and she’s clearly doing her best to keep Kayla from leaving. For her part, Kayla’s trying to nod and edge away, but Harper keeps talking.

Maybe as the driver she feels responsible for Kayla, too. She could be checking on her. And if so, I hope like hell she finds out whether Kayla’s mystery illness is contagious. I’m super not interested in getting wickedly sick on top of everything. Kayla finally shrugs off Harper’s hand and heads outside, producing a cigarette from her purse and smoking near an ice cooler that feels pretty ironic given the weather.

The door swings open again and I startle. It’s Josh walking out. I hadn’t even noticed him walk away. God, I hope he doesn’t think I like him. I really do not need that. I watch him swing-stumble on his crutches toward the car, where Brecken is pumping gas. They give each other the guy high five, then start chatting like snow isn’t clumping in their hair and whipping their pants against their legs.

It’s bad out there. Bad enough that whatever road we end up on, it’s going to be slow going. And speaking of going—I probably need to stop standing around like a dumb ass.

I head to the bathroom and find Harper inside, furiously typing on her phone. She doesn’t even look at me. She just stands in the corner, eyes locked to the screen and fingers moving comically fast.

I linger at the door, wondering if I should say something. Ask something. She looks up briefly, anguish written on her face. But then she looks down and I remember: she might not want to talk to me about any of this. If she wanted to bare her soul, she would. It’s not like she was shy on the plane.

She leaves while I’m in the bathroom stall, the door closing behind her with a soft creak. I finish and wash my hands. In the store, she’s searching her purse at the counter. Abruptly, she heads back to the bathroom like she forgot something. Keys, maybe?

I snag five bottles of water and five bags of chips from the nearest display. The guy at the register—who can’t be much older than me—holds a carton of cigarettes. My eyes drop to the embroidered letters on his name tag. Corey.