She looks over, like maybe I just hit that same sweet spot, the no-bullshit bull’s-eye. “Yeah. Basically. Whatever. She does her thing and I do mine, mostly. It’s just”—a shake of her head—“she pisses me off. That’s all.”

Sage falls back a step, glancing at Bree. “Have you seen that?”

We’re near the base of the hill, at the low unit numbers. I follow their gazes to 3B, where a bedroom window covered in a Bruins beach towel glows with the light of an electric candle sitting on the frame. “Deb told my mom that she’s going to leave it burning in his memory.” Sage sees my look. “That’s where Gavin Cotswold lived.”

“Ugh.” Bree stares for a moment, maybe looking for signs of life, but the apartment is dark and still. “God, that’s sad.”

“You said you live across the street?” I say. Sage nods.

“Middle apartment.” Warmly glowing windows, a patterned welcome mat at the front entrance. It has a neat, put-together look that reminds me of Sage herself. Someone left the outside bulb burning: another light to guide the way home.

The skate park has a shrinking effect on Hazel, reducing her to the size of a figurine, maybe one of those ceramic shepherdesses you see in china hutches. She sits way back against the fence, huddled over her phone in her puffy coat and a pair of fuzzy earmuffs she must have smuggled in her pocket, because Bree sure as hell never would’ve sanctioned them, sneaking looks at the skaters and rapid-fire texting with a friend—OMG @ skate park with hotties, something to that effect.

When Trace finally shows himself, darkness is coming down, a deeper saturation as the days grow shorter. The boys are more wired than I’ve ever seen them, Moon swinging out of the passenger-seat window, drumming his sticks down the length of the hood, Trace tossing Sage up in the air like she weighs nothing, catching her as an afterthought, walking with her hanging over his shoulder. Kincaid’s last out of the car, finding a streetlight to lean against instead as he watches the park as if through a soaped pane. It makes me reluctant to go over, even though I’m bursting with the need to pin him down about the cookie, his bit of $8.99 unsolicited wisdom.

Trace catches sight of Hazel, sitting between the bags we brought. His wolf canines appear.

Bree steps in to intercept. “Leave her alone. I’m serious.”

“When are you not?” He dodges her outstretched palm, walking toward Hazel, who draws back when she sees him coming, her shoulders pressed against the chain link.

I think of the kid blocked in the tunnel, the transgressor, straying too far from his driveway, and raise my voice. “She’s the only reason we could find the stuff you wanted, you know.”