I swallowed down as much anger as possible. It was harder than I expected it to be. I turned forward again.

He tried. He really did. Even at the start. “Hey,” he said, taking a step toward us. “What are you doing home? I thought you weren’t back until next week.”

“Things changed,” Otter said. “Move your butt.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Tyson. Now.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard Otter speak like that. To anyone. And if Ty hadn’t thought anything was wrong before, I was sure he did now. I wondered what his mind was racing with, what narrative he was trying to spin. Otter was mad, that much was sure. I was stiff and silent, which probably made it worse. For a moment, I felt bad about that, and I hated what we were about to do, what he was forcing us to do. My head was stuffy again, and I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pretend that everything was okay, that none of this had happened.

He came into the living room slowly, like he was afraid of spooking us somehow. I knew the exact moment he saw the empty pill bottles lined up on the coffee table. He stopped, making a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach. It hurt to hear. Because it validated everything, and no matter what came out of his mouth next, no matter how he tried to spin this, it would all be bullshit. He’d given himself away, and he’d only been in the house for a minute. It was only then that I realized a small part of me had hoped this wasn’t real. That these bottles could be explained away. That Corey was a liar.

But it was true. All of it was true.

“Give me your backpack,” Otter said, holding out his hand.

“Why?” the Kid asked, tightening his hand on the strap. He was pale, and his other hand was curled into a fist at his side.

“Because I said so. Don’t make me ask you again.”

The Kid glanced at me. “Bear?”

I kept quiet.

His eyes narrowed. “You know what? I don’t think I will. I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired.” He turned to walk away.

“You take one step,” Otter said, “and you can find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

I closed my eyes. We’d talked about this. Beforehand. About what we’d do. What we’d say. And even though Otter was right, even though it needed to be said—a shock to the system—I had to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him. At the both of them.

“What?” the Kid said. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” Otter said flatly. “You can either hand me your backpack and take a seat, or you can walk out that door. The only way you’ll be allowed back is when you’re ready to man up about this.”

“Bullshit,” he said.