Sawyer leaked that video of Benji to the internet to drive a wedge between Benji and me. I don’t always see him, and I don’t know how he does it, but he follows me everywhere. And he’d try to hurt Allister if he saw me get close to him.

Allister said I didn’t have to answer, but he’s disappointed. The air was sprinkled with a soft pink glow, but now it’s melting into a sad blue. His eyes trail outside the window at the falling leaves. His fingers tap the center console.

The silence is begging me to say something, but I . . . I . . .

A text beeps on my phone, reminding me why we’re here. Allister leans over and reads it with me. Back window, window cracked, NO SCREEN. Books on shelves and in closet. Tiptoe! Keep door closed! You have 5 minutes!

I imagine her telling Sawyer’s mom she needed to go to the bathroom and then taking it upon herself to explore other rooms in the meantime. What a genius. But five minutes is not long at all.

I start to jump out of the car and then hear, “Wait.” Allister pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a pair of gloves, which look like they’re for working out. “Wear these. That way, if they call the police, my fingerprints will be on the stuff instead.”

“Allister—please.”

“Jake—relax. There’s no fingerprints on gloves. It was a joke. Just wear them.”

“Oh . . . ha.”

I slip on the gloves in a hurry. How much time do I have? Not much at all. Probably, like, four minutes and thirty seconds at this point.

I get out, close the door gently behind me, and break into a rapid tiptoe through the trees, toward the shed. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. The leaves tumbling off trees are red too, so I’ll appear like an apparition among them, somewhat blending in.

Sticks and leaves crunch under my feet. The shed looked closer to the house from way back here. It’s on its own, farther from the house than I’d expect any shed to be.

There’s a ghost man and phantom deer behind it. The ghost man is a hunter, slinging his rifle over his back—he’s got a fresh kill. Or so he thought. The deer, presumed dead, bucks its head, sticking its antlers through the hunter’s chest. Both burst into light.

The trees form a body of snapped springs and broken nerves, and through this network I loop around to Sawyer’s house as the depths of the forest pull me toward them, challenging me to keep running.

Maybe I could wind through these trees and just get lost. Let my feet take me somewhere new.