Lance nods stiffly. “Thanks.”

“You’re not sleeping on that couch,” Robbie says. “Come on, Lance.”

Lance doesn’t move, and Robbie feels a flare of desperation. Maybe he’s always sensed this was a stolen time between them, but he didn’t realize he’d have no more than a few minutes to prepare to lose it.

“Get back in this bed,” he says quietly, defeated, and climbs out of the place where they’ve passed so many perfect hours, the memories suddenly leaving him cold. “I’ll sleep on the air mattress.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Lance

Six years ago.

His father found Lance’s new hiding spot.

It’s been a long time since he’s used floorboards, as his father has long since learned all of the small signs that lead him to those underfoot spaces. So, Lance has found other spots, most of them outside. But those are dangerous, too, because he has to mark them somehow. He can’t exactly draw himself a map—then, he’d have to hide that. That means he’s ended up using little stone towers, like cairns, marking each place. A part of him knew it was only a matter of time before his father found one of them, and apparently that time has come.

There’s a broken glass jar on the kitchen table, a crumpled piece of black fabric amidst the shards. There’s only one thing it could be: the lace panties Lance took last spring from the department store downtown. Sure enough, as he looks for another moment, a ridge of lace catches the light and Lance can even see the shiny pink tag, still attached.

When Lance takes things from stores, he always leaves the tags on. In his mind, that means that he could still return the items, one day. That makes it taking, not stealing. Certainly not shoplifting.

It’s not the first time his father has gotten angry at Lance for taking. But Lance knows that, this time, what Lance took is the detail that has thrown his father completely out of orbit. He’s yelling at Lance so loudly, and his words are all slurring together. That’s partially because Lance’s ears are ringing and partially because his father has already emptied a bottle of whiskey. It’s lying on its side next to the kitchen sink.

He’s still steady enough to cross the kitchen, pick up the bottle by the neck, and raise it in Lance’s direction. That’s when Lance runs.

He runs out into the summer starlight. And he runs to the only place he ever runs, really—the Chases’ farmhouse. The porch light motion sensor comes on as he crosses the yard, and a relieved breath rushes out of him. He quiets his steps out of habit, though he knows that even if he wakes them all, they won’t ask him why he’s there or turn him away. Still, it’s better to sneak in. It’s better to reach the empty side of Danny’s bed without having to talk to anyone, not until morning. Everything always seems more bearable in the mornings.