“Don’t even think about it,” Paul said, his voice low and quiet enough that Micah across the street couldn’t hear it. “I’m serious, Jax. Take one step and I swear to God I’ll murder you myself.”

Jax puffed a laugh. Leave it to Paul to both sense his gruesome thoughts and try to turn things around with humor. That was one of the things Jax loved best about his oldest friend, that he always knew what Jax was thinking without him having to say the first word. It was why they were such good friends, because neither of them ever felt like he had to explain.

But it was Micah, with his wild hairs and coal-dark streak, who surprised Jax the most. Micah stepped up beside him, toes flush to the edge, leaned his upper body over empty air and screamed. He just...opened his mouth and let loose. He screamed like Jax did when he reached the top of Balsam Bluff, long and loud and hard enough to make his ears ache and his eyes water. And then he filled his lungs and screamed some more.

Jax exchanged a look with Paul, who grinned.

The two of them joined in on the third go-round, Jax clenching his fists and giving it everything he had. He pictured his dad back at the house, his fingers stabbing the computer keys, and Pamela on her knees upstairs, clutching a Bible to her chest. To stand here, screaming with his friends into the vast, hostile wilderness, felt sad and pointless and stupid.

But for once, for however long the moment lasted, Jax didn’t feel so alone.

17

Chet and I use the rest of our snow day wisely: stretched out on opposite ends of the buttery sectional in the basement, binge-watching an ancient season of Naked and Afraid. If Paul were here, he’d be catching up on emails or working on a sketch upstairs in his study, away from the noise. Paul likes schedules. He likes crossing off his to-do lists, the charting and mapping of his goals. He is physically incapable of doing nothing.

The McCreedys, however, are masters.

“Ten bucks says that dude is going to get eaten,” Chet says, gesturing to the potbellied and bearded man on the screen. “And what kind of idiot chooses a fire starter in a jungle? You need a knife so you can hunt for food and fight off all the wild animals. Duh.”

“What was she like?” Chet glances over with a frown, and I add, “Sienna. Was she nice? Did you have a real conversation with her?”

“Sure, we talked. She was sweet. Funny.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Good tipper.”

“What’d the two of you talk about?”