The next week, the accident happened. Five of their classmates died in a car crash while driving home from Devil’s Pool. Max had been at the creek that day. He’d watched them drive away. This was his first time back.

Max swiped at the sweat from the blazing evening sun. He should get home, make sure everything was okay. Maybe he could pick up dinner?

He sat up, reaching for his tattered backpack.

“You’re leaving? What about the bonfire?” Leo swigged his beer.

“I can’t. Too much crap going on. But maybe I’ll come back later.”

Leo narrowed his gaze like he didn’t believe him. “Your mom still sick?”

Max’s mom hadn’t been to the restaurant in nearly two weeks, but his claims that she had the flu, in June, were getting harder to sell. Still, if he told them the truth about the way she’d been acting lately, they’d ask if he was feeling all right.

“Yeah, but she’s getting better,” Max lied.

Leo and Jackson had known him since preschool playdates. They were around for the dark days after his father’s funeral. They knew about the periods when his mom didn’t leave her room, or worse, when she parked her car on the lawn. But they also saw her cheering in the stands at every track meet.

Only six months ago, his family celebrated his sister Chloe’s seventh birthday, and everything was normal. His mom made breakfast for dinner and gave Max an “un-birthday” present—ever since his dad died, birthdays were a celebration for everyone. Max opened the box to find a new Mets cap, just like his father’s, the original lost in the flames, charred and gone.

Touching the hat was like getting a piece of him back, a physical reminder that they were still linked, father and son.

Where had that woman gone?

Max shoved his feet into his dirty flip-flops, then hopped out of his truck and slid on the cap, ignoring the stench of sweat. He refused to wash it. Dad said cleaning a baseball hat would curse the team, like getting up to pee during an inning with two runners on base. Dad’s superstitions were to be respected.

Leo hopped down beside him. “See you later, bro. Want me to tell Delilah anything? She’s gonna notice you leavin’.”

Max looked toward the tall blond in the turquoise bikini, her toes in the chilly creek and her hand clutching a can. He pursed his lips. He and Delilah had an on-again, off-again thing all year, if you even wanted to call it that. She wasn’t his girlfriend, but she had made it pretty clear that was what she wanted to be. Last month, she decorated his locker for his birthday, covering it with white and aqua streamers and all this gold glitter. You could see it from halfway down the hall (if not from space), and it was obvious it took her a lot of time. Max thought it was cool she remembered, but he also thought it was a bit much. When he said “Thanks, that’s…nice,” you would have thought he’d run over her poodle. She stomped away moaning, “You can be a real jerk sometimes.” They hadn’t spoken much since.