By the time they have taken my clothes; searched me in more humiliating ways than I would have thought possible; fingerprinted me; photographed me; and made me answer endless informational questions, I feel exactly as Rachel had warned me I would: far less than human.

My cellmate’s name is Susan and she is a way nicer attempted murderer than I have any right for her to be. At least so far. By the time I meet her, I only have a few minutes before they bring me to a courthouse with others in a big van for my arraignment. It’s not as stressful as it might be, because, by now, I feel nothing. I am going through the motions of basic human existence—breathing, moving, blinking—without actually being alive.

Rachel stands next to me in court. She says some things to the judge. The prosecutor—a round, bald man—says some other things. Their words are garbled and far away as though I am underwater and they are on the shore. I do hear talk about the fact that my dad cannot be located. That my mother is deceased. In the end, they deny me bail. I understand that much. I am a flight risk, they say. I have run so many times before. Finally, a fact that is hard to argue with.

When it’s over, Rachel tries to hug me. I am glad when they yell at her. I don’t want her touching me.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Wylie,” she calls as they take me away. “I’m talking days.” But she does not believe this, no matter how much she wants to.

I have not seriously considered finding a new lawyer. Not that Rachel has explained anything to my satisfaction. The only thing she has even tried to get into is why her friendship with my mom ended. She says she was representing people that my mom didn’t approve of, which only makes me more suspicious. Still, I don’t press for details. They no longer seem to matter. Nothing does.

AFTER BREAKFAST ON the third day, I hear my nickname for the first time—Firebug. It could be much worse. Honestly, I am lucky about the rumors: I am psychic, I lit two friends on fire. Even in here, they are freaky enough that people keep their distance.

Rachel asks me to call Gideon. He asked her to ask me to call. Rachel helped him clean up the house and has been checking in on him. But he is staying with friends until they find my dad. Until. That is a word that Rachel uses on purpose. So I am reassured.

But I am not reassured. Not in the least.

“ARE YOU OKAY?” Gideon asks after he accepts my collect call from a “Massachusetts Youth Detention Facility” on the fourth day. He sounds jittery and fragile.