The manager tells me that I can check in with my mom, but all other texting will be punished. Who else would I text? I can’t imagine the Grays using cell phones. They probably write letters to each other in old-timey script.

The manager leaves us to deal with the afternoon crowd. With only two people in the little shack, it’s easier to move. Courtney spins around seamlessly in black yoga pants, packing fruit and ice into the blenders, while I scoop dark-brown grit into filters, the smell traveling straight past my nose, waking up my brain.

It wafts past the memory of last night and sticks on the sight of Sebastian, blood soaked through his T-shirt, eyes staring up at nothing when they should have been looking at me.

A glossy black car pulls to the window, and I take an order for two mango sunrise smoothies.

This is fine. This is doable.

Less than an hour later, I hear two motorcycles pull into the parking lot. When I look out through the walk-up order window, I see that they’re the old-fashioned kind with a skeletal look to them, mostly metal with a kiss of chrome. One of the riders is welded out of sharp angles, the other full-blown curvy. Fingerless leather gloves grip handlebars. Two pairs of boots — one studded and leather-tasseled, one that would look more at home on a long hike — crunch into the gravel. The taller girl pulls off her helmet, revealing red cheeks stuck with blond hair.

“Lelia?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I’m Lelia’s slightly-less-evil twin.”

I wait for her to smirk, confirming that this is a joke.

“You have a motorcycle license?”

She rolls her rich green eyes. “And a dad who never grew out of collecting toys. Can we move on?”

My eyes slip to the other rider. Rush, I think, right before she pulls away her helmet in a one-handed motion, shaking out her long dark hair and proving me right.

“Our girl here does not have a motorcycle license,” Lelia says as she throws her arm around Rush’s shoulders. “She has something even better. A rebellious streak.”

Rush burns bonfire red, but she doesn’t deny it. I hadn’t thought of her as the rebellious type. Or the blushing type.

“I thought you drive that old car,” I say.

“The Deathmobile?” Lelia asks in a way that makes it perfectly clear the Grays have baptized it. “Yeah, we don’t let her drive anyone around in that thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my car. But these are more fun,” Rush admits. She gestures to the bikes.

“So. Uh. Can I get you something? A mango sunrise? Some muffins for your joyride? I’ve heard it’s not a real joyride without muffins.”

I wince. Courtney looks at me like there might be something medically wrong.

“We think you need a dowsing rod,” Lelia announces. “To find Imogen.”