“Internet…” Bill laughs as if that mouthwash he swigged was filled with broken glass. “Does it look like I’m an internet wizard to you?” The bird’s-nest speakers crackle with harsh, tinny feedback, and Bill slaps a button on the base of his microphone. “Attention, Reverend Packard and Nightlight staff,” Bill’s voice sails across the canopy and toward the sea. “This is Karaoke Bill telling you to stop your searching. I’ve found the new, eh…”

He squints in my direction for a clue. “Connor Major,” I whisper.

“Connor Major, he’s here. He’s not going anywhere. Come collect him.”

The radio switches off with a dying squeak. The Reverend won’t be long.

Karaoke Bill unspools a Walkman cassette player from the depths of his cargo pants and tosses it and a pair of foam headphones onto his desk. A Walkman—he really is pre-Google. Bill settles into his rocking chair and awaits the Reverend…but my attention remains locked on the cassette player. Music would hit the spot right now, even whatever dirt farmer country crap Bill enjoys. Music is the only surefire way to banish the pins and needles from my blood.

Less than a minute later, Reverend Packard arrives—alone, no gray-shirts—in a fabric-topped Jeep Wrangler and skids it into park under the watchtower. Bill vaults himself out of his rocker to greet the Reverend, but I steal another glance at the Walkman.

I’ve earned some music.

My thieving, Aladdin monkey hands swipe the Walkman, which fits snugly into my pocket. The rigid headphones won’t fit alongside Ricky’s Playbill, so I hook them in my waistband and join Bill at the ladder. I do all of this without losing more than five seconds—I’m a born pro at mischief. Down below, the Reverend scowls from his window and hollers, “Happy to see you’re safe and sound, Mr. Major.”

“Guess I screwed up,” I shout, shrugging. “I had a bad headache and nobody was around. I’m not used to this heat—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Pop down here. You and I are taking a field trip.”

Panic floods my nervous system. Marcos and Molly have long since disappeared back to the mobile home—there’s no one else around except Bill. While the old man remains in his perch, content with his Listerine, I descend into the courtyard—each step like a blade rammed into my chest. When I reach the Wrangler, I smile at my old family friend and he smiles back. “You shouldn’t have left class,” the Reverend says, his cheeks rashy from the midday swelter.

“I messed up,” I agree, my standard mea culpa.

I goofed. I’m a silly gay baby. Certainly not a spy you need to get rid of.