Clueless about how to respond, I swallow my entire glass. A slurry of radioactive-yellow Country Time powder collects at the bottom, and if nobody was watching, I would gulp that too. Marcos doesn’t look up from his tray, apparently too exhausted to ask us again to please, please stop plotting. Darcy’s frown tightens as she stomps away through the swinging kitchen doors, where overworked lunch ladies remain stuck in a loop of scrubbing pans and prepping new hot dishes. Darcy hasn’t eaten yet, but I need her to come back so we can formulate some ghost of a plan before we’re split up for our next class. However, before anyone tries to get blood from a stone prying more information out of Drew, we need to search Bill’s watchtower for other tapes. Across the table, Molly wrestles with a stubborn, double-tied knot of a thought.

“Do you want to listen to the tape?” I ask.

“Thanks, but no,” she says, lost in her thousand-yard stare. “I’ve heard enough Expulsions.” When Molly’s attention lands on me, my Little Bottle of Emotions unscrews another quarter-turn. It’s shocking to see her so vulnerable. Her bandage makes her look severely wounded, more than if she just had some badass exposed cut.

Outside, Karaoke Bill’s watchtower pipes out a slow country jamboree tune. After setting the record on repeat, Bill made his way into the Gulch with a skip in his step. We thought he might start flipping cartwheels. “Make room,” Bill laughs as he wedges between Briggs and the Reverend. Briggs rolls his eyes as he’s forced to scoot his chair, but the Reverend eagerly welcomes another upbeat person to the table. The men talk across Briggs—who only wants to eat his meal in peace—but Bill is undeterred. He proudly shows off the letter he received like it’s a diploma: “My family is coming tonight!”

The rest is unintelligible, but it’s obvious Briggs couldn’t care less about Bill’s good news. His discomfort is more scrumptious than this blackened fish. I can’t think of any better punishment for Briggs right now than a shitty, irritating lunch break.

“The Reverend seems happy,” Darcy reports, sliding beside Molly with her own tray at last. She swallows half her fish in two forkfuls.

“I noticed,” I say.

“Happy is good. He’ll be less suspicious of what I’m about to do.” Once again, Darcy commands the table’s attention. Molly and Marcos exchange nauseated glances. “We’ve got two more joining our group.”

“Joining us in what?”

“Scavenger hunt. We have Ricky tapes to find and no time to find them.” Next to me, Marcos curls further inward until he’s basically a man-sized Cinnabon. He’s shutting down. I promised Marcos no scheming during lunch, but Darcy is leading this train, not me.

“Coffee, miss?” Lacrishia asks, descending on Darcy with a percolator.

“Gracias.”