"I'll go," Finn says immediately, too fast, with that tone that means he's already planned something. "Scout can come. We'll make a day of it."
I raise an eyebrow. "A day out of a parts run?"
"It's the city, not the fucking moon. We'll get lunch." He's already grabbing his keys, herding me toward the door before Holt can object or I can think too hard about spending two hours alone in a truck with Finn's particular brand of chaos. "Come on, Adler. Adventure awaits. Also I'm buying gummy worms."
"Sold," I say, because apparently my priorities are exactly that simple.
Holt's still standing there with the rag in his hands, watching us with that unreadable expression that probably means he knows Finn's up to something but hasn't figured out what yet. "The list is on my desk."
"Got it, boss." Finn salutes, grabs the paper, then pauses in the doorway. "Oh, and Holt? Might want to check your toolbox. I think something died in there."
We're in the truck and pulling out before Holt can respond, Finn cackling like he just pulled off the heist of the century.
"What did you do to his toolbox?"
"Sardines." He says it like it's obvious. Like sardines in toolboxes is standard operating procedure. "Taped one to the inside of the lid a few days ago. Should be getting ripe right about now."
"You're disgusting."
"I'm hilarious." He cranks the music up, some country song about trucks and heartbreak that's probably required by Arizona law. The windows are down and the heat slams in immediately, dry and relentless, turning the truck cab into a convection oven. "We're stopping at the gas station first. This mission requires supplies."
The mission, apparently, requires sour gummy worms, blue raspberry slushies, a bag of beef jerky, and—I watch him toss it on the counter—a bottle of rubber cement.
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not." He pays, hands me my slushie, then proceeds to dump a handful of gummy worms directly into his drink. "Try it. Revolutionary."
"That's revolting."
"That's innovation." He takes a long pull through the straw, vindicated. "Come on, Adler. Live a little."
I dump three gummy worms in my slushie because apparently I'm twelve now and Finn's a terrible influence. It's actually kind of good, which I refuse to admit out loud. He knows anyway, grinning at me like he just won something.
The highway stretches out flat and endless, heat shimmer making the asphalt look liquid in the distance. Wind rips through the open windows, hot and relentless, whipping my hair everywhere until I give up and twist it into a knot. The truck smells like old leather and motor oil and something distinctly Finn—sun-baked and lived-in. My slushie's already sweating through the cup, condensation dripping onto my bare legs. Finn drives with one hand, the other drumming on the wheel, and after about ten minutes of him humming off-key to some country song, he hits me with it.
"So you gonna tell me what happened at the canyon or do I have to waterboard it out of you?"
I nearly choke on a gummy worm. "Subtle."
"Subtlety's for people with patience. I have ADHD and a death wish. Spill."
"Nothing happened."
"Scout. You came back looking like someone rearranged your entire worldview and Holt's been acting like he touched a holy relic he wasn't supposed to. Something happened."
The blue slushie's turning my tongue numb but I take another long pull anyway, buying time, brain spinning. Here's the thing about Finn—he's chaos incarnate but he's also the safest person to tell because he already knows. He's been watching Holt and me orbit each other since day one.
"He told me about the blast. The real version. Not the headlines version."
Finn's drumming stops. "Shit."
"Yeah."
"That's... that's big. He doesn't talk about it. Like, ever. I've tried and he just—" He waves his hand in a motion that I think is supposed to represent Holt shutting down. "Nothing. So if he told you..."
"He told me about the field and the blood and thinking he was dying. About watching you pull him out. About the nightmares." The desert blurs past my window, all heat shimmer and endless beige. "About not knowing if he wanted to survive."
"Fuck." Finn says it quiet, jaw tight. "Did he tell you it was my fault?"
