I sit in a chair, tapping my legs, facing a wall clock—4:10. Dad won’t be home for another hour at least, maybe two. Ma, not until seven thirty. I’ve been skidding in right at curfew most nights lately, so they won’t worry until after eight. I go to the window, look out at the trailhead, only a stone’s throw from where I stand. Bree and Sage will come that way, eventually. Probably. Unless Trace gives them a ride home.

For now, the only thing that makes sense is switching the lights on and off, like an SOS. Should be enough to catch somebody’s attention, eventually, especially as it gets darker out. Or maybe somebody will decide to stop in with their dirty socks and towels. Hopefully before tomorrow.

For the first hour, I pace from the switch plate to the windows, periodically checking for any sign of Bree and Sage. My palms and knees sting with scrapes from hitting the pavement, and I’ve got a patch on my chin, too. Maybe Kincaid and I can compare road rash. If I ever see him again.

Around five, cars start turning into the Terraces, people coming home from work. I flash the lights, bang the door, yell for help, look to see if any brake lights come on. Nobody stops. I growl frustration in my throat and kick a washer. Seriously, people—look up!

When I cross the two-hour mark, I grab a magazine. Woman’s Day. Dated two years ago, featuring a photo of a mom who lost one hundred pounds on an all-soup diet, beside a headline advertising the perfect Easter layer-cake recipe, inside! I slide down the wall into a sitting position beneath the switch panel, turning the light on and off as I page through.

Laughter. My head snaps up. Boys, somewhere nearby.

It’s the hoodies. I watch them thread around one another down the hill. Coming to make sure nobody’s let me out yet, probably.

They laugh some more, call a few insults down to me, then tires pass over dirt as they turn down the woods trail. No more sounds.

More time passes. I keep flashing the lights. Full dark outside now.

The whisking of pedals and gears draws me back to the glass: one hoodie emerges from the trees, Yellow, from what I can see by the streetlight glow. Maybe he’s the only one with a curfew. He doesn’t spare my prison a glance, taking his time riding up the center line toward home, steering with one hand, using his phone with the other.

I rest my forehead against the glass, breathe out, leaving a fog. When something else moves along the tree line, I don’t react right away, expecting another hoodie to pop out.

The movement’s not on the trail, but in the bushes, a shadow that shifts, goes still. Something’s over there.