“Try us. I think you’ll find just how serious we are.”

“Bear.”

Oh, this is goood, it whispered. Don’t you hear it already in his voice? He’s angry, yeah, sure, but he’s scared too. Bear, Bear, Bear, he says. Papa Bear. Why are you letting him talk to me like that, Papa Bear?

“You were given a choice,” I ground out. “I suggest you listen.”

The look of utter betrayal on his face was something I’d never forget.

He looked toward the door. “I can just go to a friend’s. I don’t have to—”

“Fine,” Otter said. “Then go.”

“You can’t kick me out.”

He snorted. “It’s my house. My name’s on the lease. I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I want. Maybe even get the cops involved.”

“And you’re just going to let him talk to me like that?” the Kid asked me.

I shrugged. “I’d believe him. I was there when he signed the lease. He wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“Great,” the Kid muttered. “Glad to see you think this is funny. I’m not—”

“No, actually. I can assure you that I don’t find any of this funny.”

“What is this?”

I barely restrained rolling my eyes. “Really. That’s how you’re gonna play this. Like we’re stupid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good,” Otter said. “Since you don’t know what we’re talking about, then you have nothing to worry about. Or nothing to hide. No reason then why you can’t hand me your backpack.”

I thought he’d leave. I really did. I thought he’d walk right out that door and slam it shut behind him. His therapist had warned us of that. That it was a possibility. That he could run and run and run, and that we might not hear from him for days. “He’ll come back,” she’d said sadly. “They usually do.”

But he didn’t. For reasons I could barely begin to grasp, he stayed.

He growled at us, an annoyed sound that was meant to be angry but came out petulant. He all but threw his backpack at Otter, who snagged it out of midair with one hand, regardless of how heavy it probably was.

“Thanks,” Otter said dryly. “Have a seat.”

“I’m tired. You got what you wanted.”

“Sit. Down.”

He gave us a wide berth as he moved toward the opposite couch, a scowl on his face. He sat down, hands clasped in his lap, leg jumping up and down, foot tapping against the hardwood floor. A little bead of sweat trickled down his forehead near his eye.

Otter unzipped the backpack, took out a textbook, and set it on the coffee table, rattling the pill bottles. The laptop came next. The cell phone. A pencil. A notebook. Two pens. A pack of gum. Headphones. A flyer for some campus rally involving PETA. That last one hurt, because it was a ghost that Zombie Tyson had consumed.