Now Willa crosses her arms and levels a serious look at Campbell. “I’m not here for your sister.”

“Doesn’t matter why you’re here.” He shifts closer, and the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end. Sparks dance under her skin. She wishes she could control her body’s response to him, but she can’t. “Only that you are . . . honey girl.”

Her mom’s favorite term of endearment lands like a bucket of cold water. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No. I swear, Willa. I’m not.”

“I’m not your honey girl.” She moves away, ignoring him as she drops her duffel on the bunk below the Willa doodle. She’s slightly annoyed he gave Taylor the bunk that slides out into a double, but Taylor is almost a foot taller than Willa. To be fair, she needs the bigger space.

“You could be,” Campbell says.

“No,” she says. “I could not.”

For most of her friendship with Taylor, Cam was just part of the landscape. An unofficial big brother. A solid pair of shoulders to sit on during chicken fights in the Nicholsons’ pond.

Until one night last summer.

Willa and Finley were doing a marathon watch of an old sci-fi TV series called Firefly when Finley suddenly burst into tears. Her voice cracked as she said, “I can’t do this anymore, Willa. I just want to die.”

Willa wrapped her arms around Finley and held her tight, blinking back her own tears. “Please don’t say that. You can’t give up when you’re almost done.”

Finley’s chemo and radiation left her exhausted, and with a host of other side effects that made her feel even worse. But she had only a couple of weeks before the treatment would be over.

“I’ve pooped so much today I might as well start wearing adult diapers,” Finley said. “And right this minute I feel like I’m going to puke.”

Willa poked her side. “If you vomit on me, our friendship is over.”

Finley sniffled a laugh as she wiped her eyes with the cuffs of her pajama top. “I’m sorry for bringing down the room. I just—sometimes I can’t be strong.”

“No one expects that from you, Finley. Some days are going to be shitty.” Willa crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Literally and figuratively.”

Finley laughed. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Especially when I have an idea that will make you feel better. Hand over your phone.”

Willa had never actually needed his services, but everyone knew Campbell Nicholson was the go-to guy for any illicit thing a person could want. Drugs. Alcohol. When it came to fake IDs, Cam was the juvenile delinquent version of Jason Bourne. Willa had read about cancer patients smoking pot to keep pain and nausea at bay—and if anyone could get his hands on some weed, it would be Cam.