We pass cafes with twinkle lights in the windows and bookstores and at least three Dunkin’ Donuts. My high kicks in as we walk along the main road, much sooner than I thought it would. Hey, old friend. I follow Eddie when he turns onto a quiet side street with pools of light that spread across the asphalt like melted butter. I hear the house before I see it: laughter and music, a wraparound porch where smokers lean against the railing or sit on the stairs. It’s your typical Cambridge house, made of clapboard, a couple stories high. These places all look like a Pilgrim could just stroll on out the front door at any second. Someone on the roof calls down to someone on the porch. They laugh.

“Nolan!” A skinny guy with ripped jeans and a faded black T-shirt jumps up from his seat on the stairs when he sees us. “Just in time, man.” He glances at me as he throws down his cigarette. “This your girl?”

I shake my head. “Hannah,” I say. “Just … Hannah.”

“Sean.”

“It’s Hannah’s birthday,” Eddie says.

“No shit? We should celebrate.” Sean motions us inside. “After you.”

Eddie sticks out like a sore thumb among the Harvard sweatshirts and Urban Outfitters. He’s so obviously poor—he’s got wrong side of the tracks written all over him. It’s clear he’s the drug guy, and the energy spikes a little as Sean carves a path through the living room.

It’s not a big place, and there are more people outside than in. I don’t know what I expected a Harvard person’s house to look like, but when I take a look around, this makes sense. IKEA chic, a little messy. Stacks of books. Half-empty bottles of wine, hard stuff. A few people sit on a couch, passing a bong back and forth. They shoot curious glances our way, one of the guys nodding at Eddie.

“What up.” Eddie says this to the room at large, and he doesn’t linger—he knows anyone who wants to buy will follow.

Sean pushes open a door at the end of the hall and calls inside, “He’s here.”

Five people are sprawled on the furniture and one of the girls claps. “My hero.”

The room is painted turquoise, the lighting dim so that it feels as though we’re underwater. A bed in the corner is covered neatly with a blanket, and a few beanbag chairs sit scattered around the room. There’s a desk with a MacBook, a lamp, a cup of takeaway coffee.

I could borrow someone’s phone. Call Jo. Have her come pick me up. I could, but the sand is at my neck, and it’s so warm and cozy here. I flop down on one of the beanbag chairs.

Eddie takes out his plastic bag and opens up shop.