I spend the night on the futon, sneaking into Ma and Dad’s room to snatch her phone off her nightstand. Still feels safer out here than in my bedroom, with the TV flashing faces, products, and promises at me, the overhead light left on. I text Trace first. No answer for a minute, two. My fingers can’t wait, blasting out a message to Sage: Where’s Trace?

I should’ve told the cops everything, sent them to make sure the person in the mask didn’t hurt Trace, even if it meant blowing the lid off everything we’ve done in the name of disobedience. What if he’s hurt, what if—

Ping—Sage. Crack gave him a 3 day vacay. Mom took his phone ???

I sink back against the cushion as my body remembers how to breathe. Then I sum up what happened in as few characters as possible, pretty much a lost cause, but between the two of us, we come up with a plan for tomorrow. I put the phone down, stretch out, close my eyes, but there’s no sleep back there, behind my lids, sure as hell no peace.

My closet, the place where bad dreams come from, waits down the hall. The memory of Kincaid—unable to speak, arms crossed over the soft shifting of his coat, the hidden movement below the surface—waits behind the door. I try not to think of him as missing; I just have no idea where he is.

Ma’s on the phone to the school first thing the next morning, asking for Crackenback, giving him the rundown of yesterday, explaining that I’ll be in class today because she thinks it’s safer than staying home alone, but for somebody to call her at work in case of anything. I hear her agree to be put on hold; next thing I know, Mrs. Mac’s got the ball, running all the way back—crap. We’ve got a conference scheduled for eight thirty a.m.

When we walk through the doors of PDHS together, Ma gets to see this morning’s stunt: a big drawing done hastily in Sharpie on the wall beside the mascot mural. It’s a slapdash reproduction of the Mumbler by some new guerrilla artist—a black outline, fingers long and jagged, mouth a gaping maw of razor teeth. A cartoon bubble stems from the Raging Elk’s head; some teacher taped a piece of printer paper over it until the custodian gets in, but you can still read the words aw shit. The Mumbler’s bubble reads nom nom nom.

Mrs. Mac has dragged an extra chair in for Ma, which means I get stuck in the egg again.