“Should I put clean sheets on the futon?” Adam asks, and I think I wanted him to ask that. I think that’s why I haven’t spent my day in a scramble about where I’ll stay tonight, but now that he’s asked, my stomach feels twisted and turned around, and I can’t believe I haven’t made any actual plans.

“I’m fine at the campground,” I tell him.

“No, you’re not. It closed today.”

It freaks me out that he knows, like maybe he was checking up on me. He must see it on my face that I’m freaked, because he says, “Tom Bilford’s in my euchre league,” and points to his head. I don’t know if it’s what he means, but I immediately think of the guy with the earflaps hat, smacking that note against my windshield this morning.

“Euchre’s for church ladies and old drunks,” I say automatically. It’s what my dad would say anytime someone suggested playing euchre instead of five card. I think I should apologize, but Adam looks amused.

“I’m too young to be an old drunk,” he says, laughing. “So I guess I need change for the collection plate.”

“Sounds about right.” I fight a smile. I wonder if Tom Bilford told Adam about me. I wonder if Adam asked. I pick up the coffeepot. “I should get back to it,” I say, pointing to the counter.

“You didn’t answer.” Adam’s eyes are still sparkly from laughing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, because I can’t decide, not because I’m trying to be mysterious.

“Will she or won’t she?” Adam says. “I’ll be waiting by the phone with bated breath.”

“Keeps life interesting.” I put the coffeepot on the burner and go into the kitchen like I have something to do in there, when really I just need to get away so I can think.

The kitchen is empty. I swipe a slice of bread from the sandwich station, hoping it will soak up the excess coffee in my stomach so I can figure out if that churning feeling is telling me something about Adam or it’s my own fault. As I’m shoving bread in my mouth, I get the kind of tingle on the back of my scalp that comes from being watched. I look up and realize the Lettuce Murderer is standing against the wall next to the fridge. I don’t understand how I could miss an entire person with flaming red hair, except that he’s very still. I freeze midchew. He looks at me, puts a finger to his lips. And then, with lightning speed, he lunges, smacking the prep counter with his bare hand, so hard it echoes. He looks at his palm, shows me the black smudge. “Spider,” he says.