But I’ve never known anyone who has died, aside from my grandmother. And perhaps if it wasn’t for the moth, or the boy I found in the woods, I’d feel less fidgety. My mind less clacking and clicking like the grasshoppers who twitch in the tall beach grass under autumn moons. Perhaps.

But instead my thoughts writhe in circles: Does Oliver know what happened to the boy who died? Was he there when it happened? Does he remember?

An hour passes and snow collides against the windows, a storm tumbles down from the mountains. Fin scratches against the wood floor, his paws twitching—dreaming of chasing rabbits or mice.

I force my eyelids closed. I beg sleep to fall over me.

But I stare at the ceiling instead.

Until, when the night seems darkest and my mind the most restless, there is a thump against the house. Then a tap tap tap on glass.

Someone’s here. Outside.

“What is it?” Suzy mumbles, eyes still closed. She might only be talking in her sleep—not really awake at all.

“I heard something downstairs,” I hiss softly, pushing up from the bed. “At the door.” My eyes skip to the stairs, listening.

“Mm,” she answers, wriggling herself deeper and burying her head in the pillow.

The wind claps against the house, and my heart claps inside my chest. I move down the steps, one at a time, careful and quiet. A boy is dead, my mind repeats with each thud of my heartbeat.

I hear the knock again, distinct and quick, coming from the other side of the front door. It might only be Mr. Perkins or one of the counselors from camp—come to warn me that a murderer is among us. Come to tell me to lock my doors and stay inside. I used to be the one to fear in these woods, but maybe not anymore.

I walk to the front window, breathing slowly, trying to calm the adrenaline pressing at my temples, and pull back the curtain. Someone stands on the porch, hands in pockets, shoulders bent away from the cold.

My fingers slide the dead bolt free and pull open the door. Snow coils in around me, wind whipping into the living room, and he lifts his head.

Oliver.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says, a line puckering between his brows.

The breath returns to my lungs and I take a step back, letting him move swiftly inside. “What are you doing here?”

He pushes back the hood of his sweatshirt, and his eyes sweep up to mine. Dark pupils, made even darker in the unlit house. “I need a place to stay.”

I cross my arms over my midsection, my thoughts still cycling over the words I can’t shake, a tune on repeat: A boy is dead. “Why can’t you stay at the camp?” I ask.