“If you don’t go tonight there’s no escape.”

A truck’s horn blared behind Joel. A pair of headlights washed over Dylan and by the time they passed he was gone, his body vanishing in their glare.

The truck roved on down the road. Joel wondered if perhaps its driver had seen nothing more serious than a lone man on the side of the highway losing what was left of his mind.

Except the door of Joel’s car was still open.

A few steps later, he stared down at the exposed driver’s seat. Something dark clung to the leather. He reached out a hand to touch it, bring it to his nose.

It was clay—sour and rotten and old.

Joel knew that smell. He’d awoken to find it caught in his throat every morning this week.

LUKE

Luke pulled up to the curb. “Don’t tell Mom about all that.”

Timothy, his gangly little brother, glanced at him in the mirror. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“Trouble? Me?” Luke pushed Tim on the knee. “Never. Sorry you’re late.”

His brother opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He gathered up the bags at his feet. “You want me to use your lucky rag?”

“Only on my helmet.” Luke produced a scrap of old denim. “Don’t go spreading that luck around.”

“Why don’t the school just pay people to do this? They act like they don’t got stacks.”

“It’s tradition. Get the hell out of here.”

Luke waited at the curb until his brother’s friend let him into a little house north of town. Through the front door Luke could see that a few other middle schoolers were already hard at work inside. Forty helmets, forty pairs of sneakers, were spread down a long dining table, all waiting to be shined to a high gloss for the game tomorrow night.

Luke knew it was no good trying to pretend that a sight like this didn’t make him a little tipsy with pride. Unlike Dylan Whitley, Luke had always cared for traditions, ceremony, heritage. Ironic maybe, considering the direction in which his heart had always pointed, but Luke was a Texas boy through and through.

Strange, he thought, that Joel hadn’t asked him the obvious questions.

Fuck that guy for wasting his time. Luke was impatient to taste some of this town’s devotion for himself. He was ready to awaken in the mornings to find messages waiting on his phone. The second the front door of the house closed Luke’s hands began to shake on the wheel.

He texted Garrett Mason: Ready.

JOEL

Wesley Mores opened the door of his sprawling, lonely house with bourbon on his breath. He gasped at the sight of Joel’s car.

“I think I hit a dog,” Joel said, his voice shaky enough to make Wesley take a step back—the youth minister was quite drunk. Joel let himself in.

“I need to wash my hands.”

“You can use the guest bathroom,” Wesley said, a slur in his voice.