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“If you fucking pass out on me, I swear to God, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

Felicity Turnado has nothing to threaten me with, and that’s hilarious. I laugh, or at least I try to. My body isn’t responding the way it’s supposed to, and everything is fuzzy: the demarcations between where my body stops and other physical objects start. The passage of time. Morality.

That’s kind of funny, too.

A giggle escapes, high and tinny, not quite right.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Felicity says, and when I look up she’s crying.

“Smells like you mean that literally,” I answer, and her mouth goes tight, like she wants to get mad at me, but half a second later the edges are twitching, and she’s laughing.

“Things have not been going so well down here,” she says, then seems to consider things for a second. “But they’ve definitely been going.”

I splutter, a mix of spit and giggles slipping past my lips. I’d forgotten that Felicity can be funny. Really funny. Maybe she’d forgotten that, too, because she looks half shocked at her own words, even though she’s laughing along.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s laughing with me that’s so shocking. It shouldn’t be. We used to laugh a lot, get slaphappy like this at three in the morning and completely lose it over the dumbest things. But a lot has changed . . . and I can’t let myself forget that.

The cat really did a number on me.

I don’t know how much of my blood is upstairs in that bedroom, how much is puddled in the kitchen, how much is mixed with dirt and jammed between my toes, and how much is still in my veins. But I think the last answer is the smallest number.

I’m losing my edge, letting our laughter rekindle something that’s dead. I need to remember why I’m here, and the best way to remind myself of that is to lay some damn bricks. I stumble to the rubble pile, find one I like. Felicity is still smiling when I begin working on the new row, like she thought everything was going to be okay now. Like it was fixed. Like nothing ever happened.

Something did happen—it happened to my parents. And I don’t know what.

I lay one row and look up to see that Felicity has a half smile on her face, like maybe those last four bricks were supposed to be ironic, a final jab before I let her go. I start another row, my blood mixing with the mortar, the light in her eyes falling away as the wall rises. Good. Felicity Turnado needs to know what it’s like to lose hope.

I sit back in the chair, a burst of black circles in my vision. The layer of bricks I just added is sloppy as hell, the mortar uneven and pitted with air holes. I did a shit job, and it’s something that would earn me a clap upside the head from Cecil if I were at home.

But I’m not at home. I’m in the basement of the Allan house. And if anyone were to hit me on the side of the head right now, I’d probably just go on over and lay in the dirt until . . . until what? Until I die? Until someone finds us down here and I go to jail for the rest of my life? It’s that thought—jail—not death, that gets me talking again. I don’t want to live like Cecil’s animals do, and I’ve seen the look in Rue’s eyes. She’d rather be dead.

But if I’m asking Felicity to be honest, I guess I probably should be, too. What I’m doing here tonight isn’t the only thing in my life that could land me in jail, not by a long shot.

“Tress,” Felicity asks, her voice weak and shaky. “What are you thinking about?”

“Patrick Vance,” I tell her.

Chapter 58

Felicity

Sophomore Year

I am a fucking mess. And I like it.

I stare down into my Solo cup. I have no idea what’s in it. I just know that Patrick Vance handed it to me, and I’ve had a crush on him since seventh grade. He handed me a little white pill to pop along with it, and I didn’t even think twice, because right after that he asked for my number. Brynn had given me a sidelong look, and now she’s been by my side all night, not letting me out of her sight, even though we both know Gretchen’s house like the back of our hands. I mean, we practically live here on the weekends.

“I’m not going to get lost,” I say, giving her an elbow. A little too hard, I guess. Her cup slops over the top, and I notice she’s only drinking water.

“I’m not worried about you getting lost,” she says, flicking her hand dry. “I’m worried about somebody else finding you.”

“Ha,” I say, because I can’t come up with anything better. My mind is slow, catching up to thoughts, picking them up, examining them, then putting them back down, moving on to something else without remembering what it was holding a second before.

It’s nice. It’s like forgetting.

“Get your head on straight, Turnado,” Brynn says. “You’re wasted, and everybody knows it. You can’t go wandering off on your own. I don’t know half these people, and neither do you. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Like that guy?” I ask, pointing at Ribbit Usher.