Page 56 of All the way home

“Most of it will probably kill me anyway,” Zach mumbles, pulling the obsidian out of his pocket, making circles along the smooth side of it with his thumb.

Kieran arches an eyebrow.

“Peanuts. I will die and it will be gruesome and horrible to watch.”

“Really.” Somehow, Kieran makes it sound more like an observation than a question. “Fascinating. Noted.”

His EpiPen is safely tucked away in the outside pocket of his backpack, but Zach would really rather not risk anything, based on his luck so far today.

In his pocket, Kieran’s phone chirps. His hand flinches toward it as though he’s desperate to check it, then falls to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist. “Okay.” Nodding sharply, Kieran straightens. “No peanuts for you for death reasons.”

And then he marches over to the nearest open fast-food counter along the strip and accosts the cashier. “Excuse me.”

Oh God. If Zach could slink down into his sweatshirt and let the fabric swallow him forever, he would.

“What can you tell me about your peanut content?”

Seriously, Zach is going to die. He drags his hands down his cheeks, horrified.

Behind the counter, the freckled kid blinks in confusion. “We . . . have them.”

“Sorry, that was unclear.” Clearing his throat, Kieran tries again. “Do you have a cross-contamination policy?”

“Uh.” The kid seems less than sure.

When Kieran glances back at Zach, he shakes his head. Bad idea.

But Kieran doesn’t give up. Zach’s still deciding whether to be humiliated or grateful when Kieran lucks out on the fourth try—A&W.

After a surreptitious Google search for this location and a visit to a few more reliable forums, Zach nods. “But you’re not paying for me.” When Kieran protests, Zach holds up a finger. “No. I’m serious.”

Mercifully, Kieran doesn’t comment when Zach orders the cheapest thing he can find on the menu, and Zach doesn’t comment when he glimpses the brightly colored contents of Kieran’s wallet. Twenties, fifties. At least two hundred-dollar bills.

After several minutes loitering out in the dining area, a family vacates their table and Kieran swoops in.

Zach follows him with his eight-dollar burger—eight dollars, Tove would smack him sideways—and sits.

A&W is safe. Historically, it’s safe. This isn’t stupid, and even if it is a little, it wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone into anaphylactic shock because he felt too awkward to say something.

Across the table, Kieran pulls a small rubber container out of his pocket, opens it, and starts assembling a metal straw.

“Wait.” A bubble of laughter turns frothy at the back of his throat. “You brought that through security? On purpose?”

“Save the fucking turtles, dude,” Kieran says, without malice. Then he shrugs. “It was in my pocket. It’s always in my pocket. People have weird things in their pockets. You have a literal rock—I saw you playing with it—so you’re one to talk.”

That Kieran had noticed at all is a surprise. Carefully, Zach reaches into his pocket, turns it over in his fingers, then takes it out and puts it on the table. “It’s obsidian.”

“You could have told me it was a rock from space.” Leaning forward, Kieran waits for Zach’s nod before he picks it up, turning it every which way. “I’d have believed you.”

“But it wouldn’t have been true.”

Kieran shoots him a strange, swift glance and sets it back down.

Taking it and slipping it back into his pocket, Zach clears his throat. “Anyway. Save the turtles. Got anything else weird in your pockets to beat a rock?”

It happens to be the right question—Kieran brightens. “Rena said none of this would ever be useful.”

Half-amused, half-awed, Zach watches him as he pulls items out of his coat pockets. Besides the obvious choices—phone, wallet, key chain—there’s a bottle of hand sanitizer, a tiny bottle of Benadryl, a set of AirPods that ignite a pinch of envy, a lime-green fidget spinner, and a tiny pink plastic—