She hands me her phone. The wallpaper is a photo of a massive tabby cat sprawled on its back in a comma shape, eyes wide and mesmerizing. “Wow. That’ll be a workout.”

She smiles. “He’s such a snuggle-muffin. He’ll probably fall asleep in there and be, like, drooling.”

A horn sounds, and a long, brown, old-man car pulls into the nearly empty parking lot, shocks squeaking, flashing its brights a few times to yells and wolf whistles. Trace gets out of the driver’s seat, followed by Sage and Bree. I get up to meet them, looking over at Kincaid, who’s coasting the boundary of the flat bottom, gaze focused but turned inward.

Bree doesn’t seem surprised to see me as she splits off from Sage and Trace. “We would’ve been here sooner, but we had to check in with his mom first.” Her eye roll has layers and meanings I can’t decipher before Sage’s fist lands on my shoulder, her light steps crunching over dried leaves as she moves around me.

“Clarabelle! You came.” She hands me her phone. “Put your number in. We couldn’t text or anything to let you know what was up.”

So they weren’t blowing me off on purpose. Here’s my cue to speak, tell them about Kincaid, our run-in at the marsh—but for some reason, I don’t. I’m still sorting it out myself, that weird conversation, our walk through the woods that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. The moment is passing, gone, and all I do is save my info in her contacts and follow Bree’s methodical steps through the cedar chips scattering the playground, my smile fading to consternation, gaze on my shoes. I should’ve said something. Now my silence feels next door to a lie.

The boy with the drumsticks, who everybody calls Moon, is performing machine-gun bursts on top of the tunnel, the others practically falling over laughing. Trace goes to them and leans way, way down to look inside. From where we stand, I see a face appear like a smudgy orb; a boy, on his hands and knees. “Deacon.” Trace, all patience and gravity. “Got one question for you. What’s black, white, and red all over?”

“Um . . .” The boy bites his lip, then brightens. “A newspaper?”

Trace holds his gaze for a long moment. “Bahhhh!” Wrong-buzzer sound; Trace throws his finger in Deacon’s face. “You shall not pass!”

“You shall not pass!” The others take it up. “You shall not pass!” They close over the tunnel opening again and Deacon wails.

I look at Bree. “Um . . . should we do something?”

She pulls her gaze away from the tunnel. “Nah. He loves it.”