Or, Robbie’s other, more complicated fear is correct: Lance isn’t sick at all.

He tried calling the Taylors’ landline number first, but it only rang. And then, while he was finishing up the chore of picking up party supplies and debating driving out to the Taylors’ house, he saw the familiar rusted-out Dodge that Paul Taylor, Lance’s father, drives, parked in front of the roughest bar in town. That meant Lance was home alone, and if Robbie stopped in to check on him, no one would be there to get in his way.

He drives faster than he probably should, skidding out on the gravel in the turns. He’s driving the pre-owned sedan he bought right after Danny outgrew his booster seat, and he can hardly believe it hasn’t quit yet, though the engine complains every time he nudges the gas pedal. When he gets to the Taylors’ and turns down the driveway, he checks his rearview mirror about a dozen times, half-expecting to see Paul’s truck appear behind him. It doesn’t.

One of the house’s windows is boarded over, but strangely, it’s boarded over from the inside. The other windows are dark. Robbie feels like he’s approaching an abandoned place as he parks, jogs up to the door, and knocks. No one answers.

“Lance?” he calls.

Nothing.

Suddenly too frightened to hesitate, Robbie opens the front door. It isn’t locked, which isn’t a surprise; most people don’t bother with locks in Trace County. The house is dark inside. A wave of fetid air greets Robbie, offering a gut-turning combination of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and old trash. He fights the urge to cover his nose as he steps past the threshold.

“Lance?”

There’s a thud from his left, where he finds a closed door straight off the messy living room. It must lead to the room with the boarded-over window that he noticed from the outside. Robbie walks over and rests his hand against the door’s surface.

“Lance? Are you in there?”

Another thud. Then, he hears a muffled voice. “Robbie?”

“Yeah,” Robbie calls, struggling to keep his voice even. “I was just coming by to see if you’re okay. You’ve been sick. You said you couldn’t come to Danny’s party.” He’s rambling a little, all in an unnaturally cheerful voice, standing in the dark interior of a house that feels haunted by past anger and raised voices. “Can you—can you come out?”

There’s a very long pause, and then Lance speaks softly, almost whispering. “Is my dad here?”

“No,” Robbie says, his voice threatening to break. He clears his throat. “He’s in town. It’s just me.”

There are a few more thuds, and then the door opens. Robbie steps back, surprised and worried. His eyes skate over Lance, relieved to find him whole, not bleeding or bruised, and dismayed to find him looking paler than usual, his eyes wide and his lips dry.

There are various things on the floor. Books, a square nightstand, a few other items—all relatively heavy. The thudding sounds must have been Lance moving them. Robbie thinks uneasily that he was likely using them to form a barricade against the door. The plywood is fixed to the space over the window with at least two dozen nails, set in haphazard rows along each edge.