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Because of that, Gideon is gone.

I press my forehead against the cold marble countertop. The nausea swells and recedes.

You were supposed to take care of him,whispers a voice that sounds uncomfortably like my mother’s.That was the whole point. That’s why you stayed. That’s why you gave up everything else, isn’t it?

I can’t wait. Lukas could be gone for hours, and every minute I sit here is another minute that Gideon spends spiraling toward rock bottom.

I scramble off the stool and yank open drawers until I find a pen and a scrap of paper. My handwriting is atrocious.

Gideon checked out of Westgate. Gone to find him. I’m sorry. I’ll call when I can.

—Rae

I leave it on the counter where Lukas will see it, weighed down by the half-eaten apple. A sad little tableau of domestic crisis.

Then I grab my jacket and my dead-but-charging phone—twenty-one percent battery will have to be good enough—and I’m jetting out the door.

I have to walk two blocks from the brownstone before I find a main road with actual traffic. My hand flies up the second I spot a yellow cab, and by some miracle, it pulls over.

“Where to?” the driver asks as I yank open the passenger door and leap in.

“Brownsville, please. Havemeyer Court & Ashford Spur.” It’s gonna cost a fortune to get there from here, and I’ll have way too long to sit with my spiraling thoughts, but the address is the first place I could think of that a relapsing Gideon might go.

It’s an old drug den he used to hang out at. Not the kind of place I’m keen to rush into. But, given the circumstances, it’s not like I have a choice.

I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my brother safe.

The driver grunts and pulls into traffic. I slump against the cracked vinyl seat and breathe. Through the window, brownstones give way to bodegas and bodegas give way to the gray expanse of the BQE.

When I’m somewhat centered, I pull up Gideon’s contact and hit call, even though I already know what’s going to happen. Sure enough, it goes straight to voicemail.

“Yo, it’s Gid. Leave a message. Or don’t. I probably won’t listen either way.”

The beep sounds, and my throat closes up. I force myself to squeak out, “Gideon, it’s me. I know you left Westgate. I’m not—I’m not mad, okay? I just need to know you’re safe. Pleasecall me back. Or text. Or send a carrier pigeon. Whatever. Just… please.”

Six hours later, I’m out of ideas. I’ve peered through the dirty windows of the crack house and seen nothing. The bar where he used to score hasn’t caught wind of him in over three months. The bench in Prospect Park where I found him strung out one too many times is mercifully empty.

I’ve called Westgate again, and his sponsor, local hospitals, clean needle facilities. None of them have any leads.

My brother is lost in this sprawling, endless city, and I don’t know where the hell he is.

I haven’t cried yet, somehow. Maybe I cried myself out last night, or maybe I’m just repressing all my emotions. Very Lukas-coded of me, I must say.

But I can feel the tears coming now that I’ve reached a dead end. I drop onto a crooked stoop in the middle of nowhere and bury my face in my hands.

The concrete is brutally cold through my jeans. A pigeon waddles past, completely unbothered by my existential crisis. I wonder idly if it’s the same pigeon that watched me melt down on the Lazarev Global rooftop. If so, he must be thinking I’m a real sad sack.

It must be nice to be a pigeon. No brothers to save. No billionaires to love. The only things that matter are bread crumbs and open skies.

I raise my head and look at the sun setting. Through my teary eyes, it’s a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of tangerine beauty. I wonder if Gideon is looking up at it, too, from wherever he is.

I look again at my phone, dangling in my hand. I’m down to four percent battery. But when I swipe down, I see that I missed a call. I must’ve been on the phone to the hospitals or wherever and not heard the incoming beep.

This one’s from Jillian. I tap play and listen, with the beginnings of a nasty feeling crawling through my chest for reasons I can’t quite decipher.

At first, there’s only her breathing. It sounds like someone who’s been crying for a while and is trying very hard to stop.

Then her voice.