First thing I do when we get to the car is pop open the glove box.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Robb asks. “Tyrell gets shotgun. Roomie privilege.”

“Just checking,” I say.

“Checking what?”

“Never mind.” I snapped the box shut. No errant weed, no tools. Just some papers, all white, and a black binder labeled with the make and model. The car manual.

I wouldn’t have put it past Robb to have something that would land me or Tyrell in court if we get pulled over. Some of us don’t have fancy lawyer dads or white skin to fall back on.

KIMBERLY

I wake up crying. I refuse to let it show, with Zeke in the bed with me. I blink back the tears, turn my face into the pillow to dry my cheeks. My sobs shake the bed. I don’t want to wake him. I can’t.

When I’m sure I can be quiet enough, I roll over. He’s still sound asleep. Lying there looking all perfect. Except for how he’s kind of drooling, which is perfect in a different way.

I ease the sheets aside and slip out to the bathroom.

Run the water hard. Sit on the tile and weep.

I put on the shower, because I’m getting wet anyway and I might as well. I tuck my hair into the shower cap. The room fills with steam and I sit in the tub with my head on my knees, letting the water pound over me.

The truth is like a drumbeat in the back of my mind. Zeke is leaving.

Zeke is leaving.

Zeke is leaving.

TYRELL

“Yo, man, slow down.” It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak.

The speedometer ticks toward seventy-five. Eighty.

Robb grins blondly, a poster boy for no consequences. “You chicken?” He guns it. Eighty-five.

“Please. For real.”

Robb grins. “Chicken.”

“I don’t want to get pulled over.”

“We won’t. And we’ll get there so much faster.” He guns it harder. I should have kept my mouth shut.

I dry my palms along my jeans, then practice holding very still with my hands upon my knees.

Robb says chicken, I think head cut off. I think about what force it takes to separate a head from a body, the mass times acceleration of a knife across a throat. The cold, swift act that some would deign to call merciful.

Robb thinks faster, I think about a baton tapping a window. I calculate exactly how much faster we’ll get there, and it’s only a matter of minutes.

Seventeen minutes.

Those minutes and his fun. They’re more important than me.

I keep my mouth shut. When in doubt, I run the numbers. Things in this car that could be mistaken for a gun:

My cell phone

Robb’s cell phone

my wallet

Robb’s wallet

my belt buckle

Robb’s iPod, casually docked beside the gearshift

the gearshift itself

his camera tripod, tucked under the backseat

a roll of duct tape

my winter gloves

my headphones