I uncross my arms and force myself to tune in. Because that isn’t me. I’m the one who’s fine through all of it, at the hospital. At the funeral home. Even when we put her favorite flowers on the grave this summer. My mom fell apart, but I held on to my art and did what my aunt asked me to do, and I’ve been fine. I’m always fine. Because I can’t let myself be anything else.

“Mira?” Harper’s eyes are dark with concern. “You don’t look good.”

“Yeah?” I force a laugh, then swallow it down, because I can’t laugh. What the hell is funny? Someone’s stealing things out of this car. Pieces of our lives are disappearing. A wallet. A phone. A map. Who would even want a map?

Someone who doesn’t want us to find our way out of here.

Someone who likes us alone and frightened.

“Are you okay?”

Josh this time, his brow creased. Brecken’s watching me, too, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, dark and assessing. Am I okay? I don’t feel okay. I feel like I’m losing my mind, and the way they’re watching me seems to confirm it.

“I’m fine,” I say. I learned after Phoebe that if you say it enough, people believe you. Say it even more, and you’ll believe it yourself.

“Maybe you should drink some water,” Harper says.

“Maybe you need to stop babying her,” Brecken says.

“Watch your mouth,” Josh snarls. I startle, surprised that he’d care.

“Brecken’s right,” I say. “Really, I’m fine.”

“Wait!” Harper shouts, pointing ahead. “There! Stop there!”

“What are you talking about?” Kayla asks.

“Pull in up there,” Harper says. No more scared little girl now. This is her confident all-business tone I heard on the airplane when we were bobbling down to the ground like a yo-yo with wings. She’s pointing to a small parking lot maybe a hundred feet up the road, with a squat building behind it.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a gas station,” Brecken says.

“Obviously,” Harper says. “But it’s open.” Red light shines from a neon sign near the door, a four-letter confirmation of Harper’s claim.

Brecken pulls into the lot, the car crunching over snow-covered gravel.

There are two cars parked and no windows on the building unless you count the glass door. It’s beige and featureless, with an unlit sign hanging over the door. The wind blows it back and forth, but when the gusts die, Josh reads the name aloud.

“The Cock ’N Bull Bar? Really?”

Brecken sniggers. I swallow, my throat clicking.

We park beside a newer Honda with file folders scattered across the back seat. Even before the engine is off, Harper thrusts a hand between the front seats, her palm facing up.

“Keys.”

“What the hell? Do you think I’m going to—”