"I'm judging you so hard right now."
"Noted and ignored," Finn says cheerfully. "Oh! Speaking of which—" He leans forward to look at Holt. "Did you tell Scout about the guy who wanted us to make his car sound like a spaceship?"
"I didn't tell her because it's not relevant to anything."
"It's extremely relevant. It's the best story we have. Well the best after the chicken guy." Finn turns back to me. "This guy—I'm not making this up—wanted us to rig his exhaust system to make sci-fi sounds. Like, pew-pew laser noises when he accelerated."
"What did you say?"
"Holt said no," Finn grins. "I said we'd think about it. We're still thinking about it."
"We're not thinking about it," Holt says flatly.
"I'm thinking about it very hard right now."
The highway stretches out in front of us, heat waves making the asphalt shimmer like water that isn't actually there, everything wavering in the distance. I've got my hair piled on top of my head—messy, already falling down, but at least it's off my neck—and sunglasses on, and I already feel better just knowing we're heading toward water. The promise of it. The idea that in twenty minutes I'll be cold for the first time in hours. The landscape blurs past in shades of red and brown and that bleached-out beige Arizona does so well—scrub brush, red rock, the occasional ranch fence marking property that goes on for miles.
I glance at Holt, at the way he drives—relaxed. He's got the window down, arm out, and there's something about seeing him like this—not working, not tense, just driving toward something good—that makes my ribs squeeze tight, makes me want to memorize this exact moment.
"So what's the swimming hole situation?" I ask, pulling my attention back to safer territory. "Are we talking murky pond or—"
"Spring-fed," Finn says, leaning back into the seat, taking up more space than any human should. "Cold as hell, blue-green water, cliff ledge about fifteen feet up."
I twist to look at him. "Cliff jumping?"
"Optional but encouraged." He grins. "Highly encouraged. Mandatory, even. I'm making it mandatory right now."
"You can't make cliff jumping mandatory."
"Watch me. I'm the Chief of Fun. It's in my contract."
"You don't have a contract."
"Verbal agreement. Implied. Holt, back me up—do I or do I not enhance every situation with my presence?"
"No comment," Holt says, but his mouth twitches.
"See? That's practically a yes." Finn nudges me with his elbow. "I jump every time. With increasingly impressive form."
"Do you actually jump?"
"Every single time. Sometimes twice. Once I did a backflip." He pauses. "It was more of a back-flop, but the spirit was there."
I glance at Holt. "You jump?"
He keeps watching the road, but there's something in his expression—amusement, maybe. A softness around his eyes. "Sometimes."
"Holt still jumps," Finn says, elbowing me conspiratorially. "Just takes him longer to climb back up." He says it casually, easy, and Holt doesn't react beyond an eye-roll that suggests this is well-trodden conversational territory, a joke that's been made before and will be made again.
"How often do you guys go?" I ask, watching the landscape roll by.
"Summer?" Finn stretches his arms overhead, nearly elbowing both of us. "Couple times a month. When the heat gets stupid."
"So basically constantly."
"Basically constantly," he agrees. "You're gonna love it. Whole town shows up—families, teenagers blasting terrible music from their truck beds, Betty Cordero with her fold-out chair and a cooler full of beer she'll offer to anyone over twenty-one and also probably some people who aren't but she likes their vibe."
"Betty Cordero from the diner?"
