This is it, Will thought at that moment. I finally went too far. He loved to party and have a good time, sure. But he’d never overdone it the way a lot of kids did around here. He was always careful never to get hooked or get caught, and he never blew a school deadline. That had been the key—getting good grades, being an athlete and a leader. He’d learned that by watching Hunter’s family and their wealthy friends. If you took care of business, no one seemed to mind if you had a little too much fun once in awhile. And until now he’d always managed to have it both ways: work hard, play hard. Not like his brother. Trip couldn’t just smoke pot—he had to sell it too, and get caught in the process. And it was never just a few beers, like Trip had promised. It was always eight or ten, and then shots. He loved Trip, but even he thought that Trip took things too far.

Faced with the cops, Will’s instinct was to tell them everything. If he could just explain to the officer what had happened, he’d thought, how things had gotten out of control, couldn’t they find a way to make it right? He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone.

Trip knew him well, and he read in Will’s loosening shoulders and rising hands the instinct to explain, as the cop put down his radio and started toward them. Trip leaned over one more time and whispered, “I could do serious time for this. Please be cool.” Will’s mouth went dry. He stared at the cop, waiting.

In the end, the officer barely asked them any questions. He rounded up a couple more kids who crashed noisily through the woods behind them, and collected everyone’s ID’s. It was quiet, and every time the police radio crackled to life, Will startled. He was sweating and trying not to sweat, which just made it worse. Finally the cop wrote Will an underage-drinking ticket, told them to quit partying in the woods, and called their parents. Will kept waiting—for someone to mention the party, for the cops to notice the music that he could still hear, coming faintly from the house. But it seemed the cops didn’t know. For them, it was just a routine stop.

Trip, still on alert, watched his brother. His jaw was tight, and his hand was on Will’s arm. “Be cool,” he whispered one more time. Then he looked up and shielded his eyes from the oncoming headlights. “Here comes Dad.”

On the ride home the car was silent, the five-minute trip excruciating. At home, his father spat questions at a rapid clip, but Trip did most of the talking and eventually Mr. O’Connor sent them both to bed like little boys.