The drive to Trace’s house is even longer than I remember—on foot, it would’ve taken the better part of an hour. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking out the window for Kincaid, silently hoping we’ll pass him on his board somewhere, see that he’s okay, that he must’ve spent the night somewhere safe. Because now I know that the cold isn’t the biggest threat in those woods.

The driveway is steep and rutted, Moon’s truck nearly bottoming out on the last hole before we park behind Trace’s car. The dogs are barking, giving themselves whiplash against their chains, all of them some strange spotted mutt breed.

“So . . . this will be weird,” Sage says to me as I slide out the passenger door behind her. It’s strange, not having Bree with us. I don’t know if Sage told Bree that I was coming here with her today, or if she told her about the guy who came after me last night. If Bree would even care. “Just warning you. His mom is—”

“Different?” I finish.

“You think she’ll even let him come out?” Moon walks with us toward the paint-peeling steps. Now that we’re closer, the dogs are whining, wagging tails, desperate for love. “Sounds like she’s pretty pissed about Crack giving him the boot.”

Sage shrugs. “We’ll see.” Leads the way up the steps, opens the crooked screen door to knock. In the glass pane, between limp curtains, a white macramé cross dangles from a length of yarn.

After a long time, a tall, loose-fleshed woman opens the door, staring at Sage from beneath fierce, unkempt brows shot through with gray, just like her long, brown hair. She wears a white sleeveless muumuu, the floral pattern washed to a memory, her feet in open-toed terry bedroom slippers. She doesn’t speak, just takes Sage in with a beady stare.

“Hi. Is he around?” Sage has my respect forever; I don’t think I could force a word out if I tried, let alone have this be my boyfriend’s mom, who I had to make nice with on a regular basis. But Sage’s smile is forthright, no apologies in her tone.

Ms. Savage gives a short laugh, her voice hoarse and low. “Oh, yeah. He’s home. Home for three days, thanks to his fresh mouth.” She gives us an agitated glance. “Suppose you think I should let him see you anyway.”

“Only if it’s okay with you.”

As I look past Sage, I get a glimpse of the mudroom behind Ms. Savage. A big framed painting hangs on the wall, one of those blond Jesuses with a mournful look in his blue eyes and light beaming around his sacred heart. Ms. Savage shifts to the left, shouts across the yard, “Trace-y! You got comp-any!”