How do you do that? People find LOTS of things to say about me, even when I try to copy exactly what you do. Be in the room. Laugh at the jokes. Enjoy the company. Keep up a good appearance and stay out of drama. No one lets me get away with that.

Although I have to say, it’s kind of fun to be more than that. Sometimes.

Sometimes it’s the best thing in the whole world.

Sometimes it’s not.

Tell the group the tunnel goes farther than we know. Walk until the dead man’s eyes see you leave.

Love always,

Marley

July 11

Five Years Prior

My head screamed. My heart screamed. I screamed. My voice became louder than noise itself. Still barefoot, I sprinted out the door and down the street, my towel flying off and landing in the center of Albany Lane. The only word I could come up with was “Help!” I yelled it a thousand times in a thousand ways, my desperation begging for understanding, hoping for someone to fix the mess we’d made.

Aidy appeared at the edge of our driveway with Harrison and the Campbell twins. They took off toward the Bricket house before I could reach them. Spectators flitted blinds and pulled back curtains as I ran my voice ragged and hoarse, screaming to drown out the ringing in my ears. Black pavement scorched my feet, forcing my aimless yelling indoors.

One creak of our aging floorboards, sounding too much like a softened gunshot in my frenzied state of mind, broke my stream of wails. It was Ruby, with her big umber eyes widened in curious fear. She came from my bedroom holding our secret box: a collection of trinkets we’d taken while raiding our houses for hidden treasures. One of our stolen cigarettes, formerly property of my mom, filled a space between her unwashed fingers. She liked the habit more than I did. When Marley tried to teach us, I didn’t smoke it right, and I had no interest in learning the proper technique. It was gross and it burned my lungs. How anyone found enjoyment in it seemed mystifying to me.

Ruby said she only did it when she was stressed—which I think was something she’d heard my mom say while trying to quit—but I didn’t have time to wonder what had Ruby worried enough to sneak off into my room and smoke. I was crying too hard.

“What’s wrong?” she cooed, the habit furthering the husky undertone of her voice.

I knew she wouldn’t smoke if my parents had gotten home, so I did what I’d wished to do so many times before—snatched her lit cigarette and put it out. It burned a shadowy mark into the carpet at the edge of my bedroom doorway. I grabbed her hand and dragged her along. She matched my wordless panic without question.