Trace digs for his keys. “You girls want a ride?” Not making a big deal of the fact that the night is obviously over for me, that the last thing I want to do is set foot on those trails again to walk home.

Sage rides shotgun, Bree and I climb in back. As Trace starts the engine, I look out the windshield and see Kincaid sitting on top of the jungle gym, watching us, arms draped loosely around his bent knees, the center vent of his coat hanging like a pair of folded crow wings. One hand grips his opposite wrist; he’s still holding me.

Everything I’m feeling—guilt, relief, some sense of a lost chance I’m not even sure I wanted to take—hits me at once, and I rest back against the seat, just grateful for the warmth pumping from the heater and the fact that these guys aren’t the type to force small talk.

When we pull into our lot at the Terraces, Sage turns, giving a buh-bye wave. “Sweet dreams, girlies.” She looks at Bree, nods to me. “Keep an eye on her. No more search and rescue tonight.”

As soon as they back out into the street, Bree says, “Did Kincaid find you?” The words burst out in a rush, contents under pressure.

I hesitate—brief, but there—hearing his words again: when you’re scared so much, it gets to be part of you. “Yeah.” Again, time’s eating my chance to tell her about standing with Kincaid on the banks, about seeing the Mumbler with my eyes closed. Even though Bree and I are in this crush together, on this odd-duck boy who makes monsters out of shadows and marsh woods, I feel my fist tightening on this night, this memory, and know that I’m not ready to share. Not until I know what to make of it myself.

“What did Kincaid say? Did he ask if you were okay or anything?”

“Kind of.” She keeps looking and I shrug. “You know. In Kincaid-speak.”

She laughs at that, a relief. “Lucky slag.”

“That’s my name.”

We start down the walkway. “So how did you not fake a sprained ankle or something and make him carry you?”

I watch my feet. “I’m not sure he could. He looks sort of . . . malnourished, I guess?”

“Yeah. His parents must’ve really slacked on the Flintstones vitamins.” She nods to the next unit. “Come over. We’ve got ramen and stuff.”

I shrug okay, even though passing the lit windows of my apartment makes me a little lonesome for our sparse living room. Dad’s home, probably checking to see if we’ve got anything worth snacking on.

Bree no sooner kicks the pink Asics against the wall than we see Hazel, sitting on the kitchen floor, a blanket tucked around her legs. Crying.

Phone in hand, she stands, swiping at her nose. “Where were you?”