Haven’s words scratch Rush’s heart, or maybe they open a scratch that was already there. Rush steps back into the protection of the woods. Imogen’s window is empty, and Haven locks the back door.

Which means Danny is the only hope Rush has left.

Danny: Now

I’ve made it through another shift at Coffee Gods. Almost. I keep looking at the time on the register, glowing at me like a promise. 4:15. I’m going to restock the fridge and then wipe down the espresso machine while Courtney takes the rest of the orders. She makes smoothies with precision, her fingers sharp on the buttons. I push carton after carton into the back of the fridge. I check the clock again. 4:17. There can only be so many minutes until this ends and I’m far away from almond milk.

Back home. Or at least in the cottage.

Safe.

No cutting class. No skipping out of work. No disappearing from the places I’m supposed to be. No flirting with girls I’m not supposed to like. When I make it through a day, I tell Mom, and she smiles like I should get a gold star for not ruining my own life.

The sound of the blender falls away, and Courtney’s back turns to stone.

“Could you please stop?” she asks. “Or at least learn a song that has more than three notes?”

I didn’t realize I was humming. But there they are, warm on my lips, the notes that Rush sang in the woods on Monday night. And then again, as she rode away from me.

Have I been humming all day? Through classes, passing periods? While I was pulling every shirt out of my suitcase this morning, trying to decide which one was good enough for the inevitable moment when I saw the Grays?

I try to push the notes down, but they don’t want to stay put. They keep working their way out of me, rising and rushing past my defenses. I am all soft breath and slippery notes. I can’t stop.

“Sorry,” I mutter to Courtney.

But I’m not really. I just know that’s what I’m supposed to say.

That’s how it worked back in Michigan. I told my parents I was sorry a thousand times, but I was sorry for making them worry about me. Not for what I was actually doing.

“Aaaaand your friends are back,” Courtney says.

Crouched in front of the refrigerator, I drop a container of lemonade. I have to wipe the sticky spill before I can make it to the window. I hope for Rush in a motorcycle jacket. I hope for all of the Grays, arm in arm, storming the shack and breaking me out.

I don’t get either of those fantasies.

The Grays are gathered in the corner of the parking lot, a closed circle, their backs to the world.