“Very soon, you’re going to run out of ways to explain the things you don’t understand.” He tosses something at me underhand. It’s a perfect throw, but I have no coordination, and the object hits me square in the chest, almost dropping to the ground before I get my hands on it. “When you’re ready for answers, get in touch. Anytime.”

Looking down, I find a disposable, plastic cell phone in my hand—a burner. “Do you honestly think…”

But I trail off when I glance back up again, because there’s no point in finishing. The light hasn’t disappeared entirely yet, but Jude has. He’s gone.

3

The three things I actually enjoy about my crappy hometown are as follows: 1) Colgate Woods, a nature area adjacent to our once-thriving industrial neighborhood; 2) The sight of Boyd Crandall in his underpants; and 3) Sugar Mama’s, an ice-cream-parlor-slash-café, because everything about it is life-changing. Their Nutella gelato? Life-changing. Their peppermint s’mores mocha? Life-changing! Their gorgeous barista with the cute butt and dreamy blue eyes? Life. Changing.

His name is Gunnar, he is sixteen, and he lives in Wilmette—which is about ten minutes away and even smaller than Fulton Heights. He has light brown surfer hair and a cool dude-necklace, and he works Monday and Thursday nights, plus alternating Wednesdays. Which is why I make Adriana meet me for regular and carefully scheduled study sessions at Sugar Mama’s each week.

It’s been five days since a mysterious vampire ambushed me to say I’m supposed to save the world from Darkness with a capital D, and as yet the sun keeps shining. Since then, I’ve only had one terrible nightmare—a normal one, about spiders—and no more weird blackouts, or whatever it was that happened in the art room. I also passed my algebra quiz by the skin of my teeth, so if there really is some sort of curse on my head, it’s failing at its one job.

I’m not trying to sound flippant. I spent roughly forty-eight hours panicking about the possibility that Jude—whoever he is—could be telling me some version of an actual truth. Because, I mean, here’s the thing: Either he honestly believes I’m the key to fending off Doomsday, which is scary … or he was lying in order to trick me, specifically, for some reason. Which is possibly even scarier.

When I get to Sugar Mama’s, Adriana is already at our usual table by the plate glass windows looking out on Main Street, nursing her usual order: a scoop of amaretto ice cream drowned in at least four shots of espresso. I give her a wave and get in line, and when I reach the front of it, Gunnar looks up at me and smiles—and it’s a huge smile, one that reaches his perfect, dreamy eyes. “Hey, it’s my favorite customer!”