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“You did something creative, and funny, and you did it your way. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“That was yelling?” she asks.

“In the Chass household, it qualifies,” I tell her.

“Lightweights,” she says under her breath. Then, “So we’re cool?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” I tell her, meaning it. Unless, of course, it turns out she was involved in torching my yard.

“Fuck,” I say, and impulsively grab her beer, taking a deep swig.

“Whoa, hey, slow down, Drinky Drinkerton, that’s spiked with Jack.”

“With what?” I cough, holding the beer can out to take a look at it. It’s off-brand and super cheap, and while it had tasted like water, it burned going down.

“Mr. Jack Daniel’s,” Bristal explains. “Friend to you and me, and extra-close confidant of our guidance counselor, who we have to thank for being out here in the first place.”

“Amen,” I say, raising the can and finishing it off. “Do you have more?” I ask, turning in my seat to check out the back of Bristal’s car, my head pleasantly humming.

“Yes, but I’m cutting you off,” Bristal says firmly. “I’m not assisting in your first-ever home escape only to have you crash into pots and pans and puke all over the place as soon as you try to get back inside.”

“Thanks,” I say, clapping a hand onto her shoulder. “See? You’re a good person. I knew it.”

Bristal snorts. “I’m the best fucking person.”

“Maybe,” I say, lifting a finger in the air. It wobbles more than I’d like it to, so I hold on to my wrist with the other hand to keep it steady. “But you were totally making fun of me reading off the Civil War dead when you identified roadkill.”

“Heh, yeah,” she says, smiling. “That was a direct hit. But it was damn funny, and people liked it.”

“People like me!” I insist. “Are you sure you don’t have more beer?”

“One more for you,” she says, reaching into the back seat. “There’s no Jack in this one, and if you puke in my car, I’m leaving you in a ditch, bigfoot or no bigfoot.”

“Why would I pee in your car?” I ask, snapping the can open.

“Puke in my car,” Bristal corrects, grabbing a can for herself. “And if you pee in my car, you can forget the ditch. I’ll just leave you in the road.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You like me,” I argue, which brings me back to my thought from a second ago. “People like me.”

“Adults like you,” she says, downing half her beer in a gulp. “With the under-thirty crowd you’re highly suspect.”

“Pfffffttt . . . ,” I say, which has never struck me as a good counterargument before, but seems to be all-inclusive and damning in the moment.

“Did you see our stats?” Bristal asks, pulling out her phone. “Our downloads for the last episode were high.”

Bristal turns her phone so I can see. We’ve got over two thousand downloads for that ep alone, and the numbers for episode one are ticking upward as well, the newer airing pulling in listens for the backlist.

“I want to turn the comments back on,” Bristal says. “Yeah, it can get nasty, but people are talking, and if they aren’t talking on our platform, they’ll do it on someone else’s. Things could get missed.”

I consider it for a moment, letting her words process through the growing haze in my mind. “You’re not wrong,” I tell her. “Even just alluding to Denise in the first episode drew comments. People remember her, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

“Right,” Bristal agrees. “And the more people get chatty, the more clues we can catch.”

“I know, but Mom and Dad would flip if I turn commenting back on.”

“What’s the whole thing you just said about being eighteen and having the rights and privileges of—”

“I still need them to pay for my college,” I shoot back, the words seeping out even though they might no longer be capable of such a thing.