But I don’t want to let go of what’s back home either.

Garrison.

My family.

I love them more than anyone here can understand.

11 BACK THEN – September

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

GARRISON ABBEY

Age 17

With a Grouplove song blasting through my headphones, I splice together roughly thirty-four clips on Final Cut, my Mac propped on my legs. I cut and duplicate four-seconds from Princesses of Philly.

Right now, I’m looking at Ryke Meadows on pause. He’s staring at a mangled motorcycle on the sidewalk. I press play. “What the f**k? Mother ****ing, piece of sh*t **** **** ******* kidding me.” I pause, trimming one-eighth of a second.

The clip is funnier if it’s duplicated and overlayed with a song, so I add music on top of his bleeped out cursing and then add a two-second clip from an interview. “What the f**k kind of question is that?” He throws a pillow at the camera.

Nathan suddenly chucks a rubber gargoyle mask at me, hitting my laptop closed.

“Motherfucker,” I swear, yanking my headphones to my neck.

“Dude,” Hunter says—and no, this isn’t my brother. It’s one of my friends who pales in comparison to my brother’s greatness and effervescent beauty.

“What?” I glare, lifting my computer screen back up. I set the mask beside me on the desk, the rolling chair squeaking as I shift.

Nathan’s den is unusually quiet. No music playing out loud. No poker tournament or multiple conversations happening at once.

It’s just a handful of my friends, with rubber masks, black clothes on, and a plan inside their heads. A plan that’s put a feverish, crazed look on their faces. The adrenaline high of doing something illegal has already set in.

And I feel sick.

Maybe because Loren has talked to us, not just threatened us, but actually talked and it’s hard—it’s a lot fucking harder to see him as this impenetrable celebrity when he’s humanized himself in more ways than one.

My neck heats, and I sweat underneath my hoodie. I can’t stop picturing him and his kid, his baby.

And the plan tonight: we break into Loren’s house. We scare the fuck out of everyone who lives there, and then we run away.

Infants are there. And I know one of the girls…one of the girls is messed up with PTSD or something. When Loren caught me with a paintball gun in hand, I remember one of them—either him or his brother—they said that to me. My girlfriend has PTSD. I think it’s Ryke’s girlfriend, and I’m not sure what this is going to do to her—but it can’t be good.

I could voice this to my friends, but I hear their response: it’s only a prank. Grow some fucking balls, Garrison. You pussy.

My skin crawls, and I’m about to put my headphones back on. The only thing keeping me from puking is this stupid fucking video. Ryke Meadows and his “Fucks” – Part 2. The first one I uploaded has over sixteen million views, so I figured a second one is due.