Every pesky tick of strange phenomena feels like a carefully seeded message now. A message from Sawyer.

I head for a table with my sundae, and I wish that I could have my peace back. That I could sit down at a table and enjoy a sweet treat without worrying that every good thing is only temporary. Without feeling like a murderer is breathing down my neck.

Concrete turns to brick as Allister leads us from the strip mall and past the gates of Sunwood University. The quadrangle is like a medieval monastery. College students lounge in the grass, bundled in scarves and jeans, those markers of freedom. No navy blue, no stiff, shiny shoes. People are here because they want to be, not because they’re trapped. I both dream of that freedom and feel like I’ll never reach it.

The wind is biting. Allister seems less cold. I’m in my hood, and he’s in no hat or head covering. I take note of his ears—big and quirky. And his flat-front navy shorts, which fall above the knee, forming a gap between them and his navy socks.

“Are your legs not cold?” I ask.

“Nope. I know, it’s weird. But I like a brisk wind. Keeps me awake.”

I don’t find it weird. I don’t find much weird, really.

Allister stops suddenly at a green statue in the grass—a white man on a horse. “Confederate general Buford Buck. What do you think would be the easiest way to rip this down?”

I inspect it from all sides. “Wrecking ball?”

“Come on, Miley.”

“Or maybe fire to loosen the foundation and then rope to pull it down. I haven’t removed many statues in my day.”

He grabs one of the hooves, testing its firmness. “I love your style, Jake. Just burn it down.” He pulls the lid off the sundae and shoves a spoonful into his wide mouth. “Okay, brownie time. Tell me if you change your mind.”

Jackhammers and bulldozers sound off in the distance as we plop down on a bench. I squint up to watch leaves fall and settle on the bricks. “I hope a leaf doesn’t get in my sundae.”

“Better eat it fast to keep that from happening.” He spins and crosses his legs, hovering over the dessert. “Race you to the finish.”

He’s devouring his with the kidlike enthusiasm of anyone eating a brownie sundae. I can’t even eat mine, though. I’m laughing kind of a lot, and every spoonful gives me brain freeze, and my mouth can’t handle as much as his, and he’s treating this as an Olympic sport.

“Okay, okay.” I swallow a glob of sweet vanilla and cough. “This hurts. You win. You’re too fast.”