I bounce my head against the wall a couple times, trying to ground myself, trying to put together the threat behind the words, to remember what’s important, what matters, what I should do . . . but it’s hard to remember when no one ever bothered to teach you.

“Yes,” I say, and it comes out more like a plea. “I want to go.”

He huffs out a breath like he doesn’t believe me.

I spin off the wall and bolt to my room. I tear back the blankets to find my favorite pair of sweats and grab all the little notes that Peak left me whenever she came over, and the three hair ties she abandoned in my bathroom, and the little bit of money my dad has given me for my work. I shove it all in the black duffel bag at my feet, along with whatever clothes are within reach, and dart down the stairs.

My dad is standing in the doorway of his office, but he looks different. Resigned instead of mad. But if I think about that too long, I might stay to ask why, and I can’t.

I can’t.

“Ridley—” he says, but I don’t look back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Jubilee

RIDLEY IS LYING stone still on my bed, staring at the ceiling with his shoes still on. He never leaves his shoes on—he knows we don’t allow it—and now they’ve left muddy smudges at the bottom of my comforter.

I’m too worried to care.

It has been exactly twenty-three minutes since Mom called me to the door with the tiniest bit of an edge to her voice. No one else would have noticed probably, but it’s the closest I’ve ever heard her to panic. I didn’t know what to expect when I ran down the hall, but it definitely wasn’t Ridley standing on our doorstep with a black bag slung across his body and a haunted look on his face.

“I got this, Mom,” I said, taking his hand and leading him back to my room.

She mouthed Is he okay? and all I could do was shrug because I didn’t know. Our last texts had been about going to Stacks later today, and he’d seemed fine. Mom followed us to my room, lingering for a minute, and then shut the door behind us.

And now, with his heartbeat thumping in my ear like a metronome on speed, I know the answer is loudly and conclusively no, he is not.

I tried to talk to him at first. I tried to tell him some facts, to make him laugh, but he just lay down without a word, his eyes red and exhausted, his breath still hitching. I did the only thing I could think of: I curled up next to him, I told him I loved him, and I waited.

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