Hunter ran his hand through his hair, trying to piece together what might have happened, trying not to give anything away. Mr. O’Connor’s narrowed eyes told him that Will must have gotten caught. By the cops, or just by his dad, Hunter wondered. He decided to play dumb. “Party?” he asked.

Mr. O’Connor just kept looking at him, not buying it, but, like Hunter’s own father, not bothering to call him on it. Hunter got this a lot, from teachers and from other kids. Even once from a local cop who had pulled him over doing nearly eighty miles an hour down a back road. The guy had him nailed. He took his time administering the sobriety test, leaning against the car and enjoying Hunter’s stoned attempts at balance, while his partner ran Hunter’s license. “Now spell marijuana backward,” he demanded, snickering when Hunter only made it through the first two letters. But when the partner came back, pointing at the license and whispering something Hunter couldn’t hear, the cop’s face tightened. Hunter, high as he was, knew the drill when he saw it. That’s Dominic Finch’s kid. There’s no real problem here, right? Just call the family to come pick him up.

“Look,” Hunter said, emboldened by Mr. O’Connor’s silence. “Is Will here? I need to talk to him.”

“Don’t you fuck this up for him,” Mr. O’Connor said quietly, his eyes never leaving Hunter’s face. “He’s going to college next year.”

Here we go, Hunter thought. Mr. O’Connor always treated him as if he and Will were competitors instead of friends, and like Hunter had entered the contest under false pretenses. “I know he is,” Hunter said. “Princeton.” He couldn’t help himself: “So am I.”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. O’Connor said, his voice using those two syllables to make it clear that he thought only one of them deserved that honor.

They stood there, the screen door between them and the silence like a game of chicken. Just then Trip came around from the back of the house, his face stubbly like his dad’s, carrying a large crate of half-frozen apple cider for the shop. He gave his dad and Hunter a wary look, and then motioned to Hunter to help him with the crate. Mr. O’Connor disappeared back into the house without a word, and Hunter took one end of the crate.

“I think I’m growing on him,” Hunter said. “He seems happy to see me.”

“Your timing could be a little better.”

“He knows about last night?”

“Sort of,” Trip said.

“What the hell happened? I left with June and Rosie when I heard the sirens. Did you guys get out of there?” Hunter felt no shame in admitting his hazy memory to Trip, who he knew had plenty of half-remembered nights of his own.