"Yeah, a few kids from the party the other night are asking me to bring them some before school tomorrow," Diego says.
"Hell yeah." I nod, staring into the distance. Nothing has really changed but everything feels like it has.
The next morning, we wake to Aunt Val singing in the kitchen.
The smell of fresh coffee drifts through the house, warm and bitter, followed by the sweet pull of a box of donuts that yanks us straight out of bed. For a second, it almost feels normal.
"Boston cream," Aunt Val says when we shuffle in. She lifts the box with a small smile. It's her favorite, and we usually get them once a week.
"Oh!" Dad growls from the living room.
I flinch so hard my chest tightens. Fuck. I forgot he was still here. He scares the hell out of me.
Diego and I grab a donut each and eat fast, barely pausing long enough to say goodbye. Across the kitchen, Dad catches my eye. He gives me a small nod, then a wink.
I look away before I can decide whether to feel sick or angry.
By the time we meet Ty and Michael, they've got a few other guys with them too, all runners, all quiet and keyed up in that way people get when they're trying not to look nervous. We pile into Michael's car and drive to a gas station down the street from school.
From there, everything moves fast.
We split up and fan out toward the groups waiting around the lot, each of us taking our own corner. A nod here, a handoff there, a quick exchange, a little laughter to keep things looking light. By first period, it's like nothing ever happened.
Diego and I keep a few loose pills on us in case anyone wants to pick up between classes. The day slips by in pieces after that. Hallways. Lockers. Teachers' voices. Faces passing too close and then disappearing again.
Then lunch hits.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Dad.
His name lights up the screen.
I answer. "Hello?"
"How's it going?" he asks, too casual, like he didn't vanish for months at a time.
"Good," I say flatly.
"Good." He pauses. "I want to talk tonight. But I have to run security for a local club."
"Security?"
"Yeah," he says, searching for the word like it's strange in his mouth. "I'm a freelancer, of sorts."
I almost laugh. It comes out as nothing.
"Okay?"
"Anyway," he says, like we're discussing weather instead of years of absence, "if you're up when I get home, I'd love to talk more."
"Sure."
I hang up.
For a second, I just stand there staring at the screen, my stomach souring with something that feels too much like betrayal to name. After all these years, after all the silence, he calls like we've just been apart for a weekend. Like he didn't leave me to rot in the dark.
Then a commotion breaks out near the cafeteria doors.
