She glances down at him, but her eyes aren’t focused. They’re filled with the same fear my horse, Remy, has when he sees a snake—before he takes the bit in his mouth and bolts.

Clay’s whimpers soar to wails, his face a kaleidoscope of red and purple. With all his hollering there should be tears, but his cheeks are as dry as the asphalt. The heat has sucked the tears straight out of his body, right along with Gram’s memory.

“I know it’s here.” Gram turns in a circle; her shopping bags hit my shoulder and tip me into the roasting metal of a car. Clay’s hand slips from mine, and he tumbles to the ground.

Before I can pick him back up, a blue truck slows down and idles next to us. The tinted window rolls down, and Mr. Rodriguez, the manager of the riding stables, smiles at us, his mustache dancing as he talks. “Hey there, you need help?”

“Mr. Rodriguez.” I smile and try to look normal. Please don’t let Max be with him. Please don’t let Max—

“Hey, Lulu.” Max leans across his dad and smirks at me. “You’re looking hot. Get it? Because it’s ninety degrees and—” Max’s dad pushes him back in his seat.

Max’s smirk is an exact replica of the one he wore when we first met three years ago, on the Saturday of my first horseback-riding lesson. He’d worn a Giants T-shirt with a matching hat and made riding look so easy. It was like he could read the horse’s mind and make it do anything he wanted. I, on the other hand, could barely stay in the saddle.

Since then he’s teased me without mercy. No matter how well I ride now, every time I see his smug face, I’m reminded of the embarrassment of that first day.

“Is he hurt?” Mr. Rodriguez points to Clay, rolling around on the ground and sobbing.

“We can’t find our van.” The words sound ridiculous as soon as I say them, and if it weren’t so hot outside, my red cheeks might be a dead giveaway.

Mr. Rodriguez waves us over. “Hop in, and we’ll help you find it. The truck has air-conditioning.”

Gram shakes her head, her jaw thrust out with a stubbornness that mirrors my baby brother’s. I pick Clay up and stagger to the truck. At almost three, he’s getting too big for me to carry, but sometimes it’s faster to lug him around than expect him to listen. As soon as I open the door, cold air wraps me in a hug. Clay slumps over and presses his flushed cheeks to the cool leather.

“Stay here,” I say needlessly. He isn’t going anywhere.