Ricky, Dabney, Gavin. Their names googled with “Pender” bring up a flurry of articles, photos hinting at horror: a roadside ditch with rescue vehicles parked up and down it, first responders’ faces bleached paper white in camera flash. The most recent update on Gavin Cotswold is from last week, a brief squib from the local paper accompanied by a selfie of a skinny dark-haired boy, smirking, eyes heavy-lidded. After a year of family and police believing he’d run away from home, his skeleton was discovered by a partridge hunter in the woods just over the Derby town line. Skeletal trauma tests are currently being run to determine cause of death.

I’m doubled over, staring at an endlessly buffering WABI-TV video clip when Landon and Ivy come up, arm in arm.

We nod. They part, Landon taking off for the ramps on a Santa Cruz board, Ivy sitting cross-legged on the pavement with a leather tote bag that turns out to hold her knitting. She withdraws a lethal-looking pair of stainless-steel needles, saying without turning, “The benches are for girlfriends. Just so you know.”

“Oh. Okay.” I glance around, expecting to see a flock of them standing around, looking huffy.

“It’s stupid. But if you’re still there when they show up later, they’ll hate you forever. Word to the wise and all.”

“Gotcha. Thanks.” Not interested in having a pissing contest with the girlfriends, I sit on the ground near Ivy, prime location by a trash barrel and a streetlight. A metal sign stands nearby, reading Warning! Neighborhood Watch—We Look Out for Each Other! Doubtful; the house across the street has a For Sale sign in the overgrown yard. Ditto for the yards on either side. “Anything else I should know about this place?”

“Hmm.” She touches her needles to her chin. “Don’t forget anything here that you don’t want to lose. Pretty strict finders, keepers rule.” Her hair’s only a couple inches long, fitted snugly around her ears, a slight fringe across her brow; I’ve never worn mine that short. Takes guts to leave yourself nothing to hide behind. “And the cops don’t drive by much, but it happens. So, anything you don’t want an audience for, take it into the woods.”

Another whine from the play tunnel, and now it’s obvious they have someone trapped in there; the skaters lean down now and then to peer at their prisoner, and I hear a scratchy little voice say, “You guys? Come on.”

My video has started in jerky movements, a somber-faced news anchor shuffling her notes. Ivy’s needles click rhythmically on her project. “What’re you making?” I tap my knuckles against the pavement, ready to chuck my phone.

“A cat cozy.” She holds it up, three-quarters of a cable-knit sack, unsurprisingly black. “For Mr. Crowley. When it’s done, I can wear him.”