He says an honest-to-goodness prayer, complete with snippets of poetry from Maya Angelou about how nobody makes it through life alone. It’s all very dramatic, and after the prayer, he nods solemnly to us as if we’re about to send our grandparents out on an iceberg instead of release insects into the field where seniors sometimes pee during gym class.

Asad and I hold the dish together, touching it lightly to the grass. Magical Mr. Mistoffelees and Macavity scurry away, but Rum Tum Tugger won’t leave the dish until Asad shakes him out.

Asad puts his arm around my shoulder as we watch the beetles burrow into the mulch.

“Do you think they’ll be okay out there in the big, bad world?” he says, pretending to be choked up.

“As long as they have each other,” I say. “Someone to count on. No matter how impossible the odds.”

Asad rolls his eyes and clutches his chest.

“Break my heart, why don’t you?”

When I give him my best pouty face, he throws his hands up in surrender.

“You win. Tell me your plan.”

My plan is this: if the unknown number is routing through Kenzie’s phone, then all we have to do is call the number when we can hear her phone ring. She won’t be able to hide anymore from how she’s treated Piper.

We make our first attempt during drama. Asad pretends to hang scenery behind where Kenzie rehearses lines, her phone in the front mesh pocket of her backpack. When I call the number, the line rings on my end, over and over. Kenzie’s stays silent.

I try again in the hallway the next day.

Nothing.

Asad stands next to Kenzie in the cafeteria while I call.

Nothing.

Asad decides she’s turned her ringer off during school.

“Or maybe it’s not Kenzie,” he says.

“It’s her,” I say. “I know it.”

We even call one time when she’s waiting for a ride home, holding her phone right in her hand. Like always, a few rings and a call-ending click.

Each time we fail, I feel like I’m letting Piper down. She leaves the hospital after a week, but she still won’t see me. Every day after school I go to her house, and every day her mom tells me she’s not up for company.

“Give her time,” she says.

One afternoon, I jam my foot in the door before her mom can close it. I crane my head into the dim house and yell: “You’re not getting rid of me, Piper! I’m going to fix this.”

At home, I scroll through Piper’s pictures online, hoping for some sign of life. All I find are more messages from classmates echoing the sentiments from her locker.