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“Nothing.” He looks everywhere but at me: at his boots, through the door, at the kitchen light that’s already on. Hand on the banister, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead.

“Bullshit,” I mutter. “Bullshit. You’re not in enough fucking trouble already, that you’ve gotta go picking fights?”

Pan’s eyes narrow. We’re barely inches apart, close enough that I can smell his sweat and the booze on his breath. The impulse to slap him lightnings through me, but I restrain it.

“The guy was a dick, okay?” he says flatly. “Somebody needed to tell him.” With that, he shoulder-checks me out of the way and barges through the door. “Who left the fuckin’ lights—oh.”

I step in after him and see what he sees. The kid. She’s at the kitchen counter, in pajamas, a mixing bowl in front of her and a box of Froot Loops in her hand. Down at her feet, the dog lies with its eyes closed, head on its paws.

“Hey, Wendy.” He pants a little. Blinks. “How’s it going?”

I glance at the microwave clock. 4:52. “What are you doing awake?” I ask.

The kid looks…not scared, exactly. She’s too tough, been through too much shit, to be scared of Pan or me. More skeptical, maybe. “Couldn’t sleep,” she says. “Where have you been?”

The dog opens its eyes. Stares. Then closes them again.

“I’ve…we’ve…” Pan, still breathing hard, glances over his shoulder at me, but nope—I’ve got nothing for him. He looks back at her and shakes his head. “Nowhere.” He cocks his head, nods at the kitchen island. “Whatcha making there?”

The kid looks at the box. “Can’t you read?”

I laugh in spite of myself. The kid smiles.

“Cereal,” she says. “Duh.”

“That’s it?” Pan gives a laugh. “That’s not very nutritious.”

“I…guess?” she says. Still frowning. “There isn’t really any other breakfast food in the house,” she points out. “And we’re out of milk anyway.”

“You know what?” Pan points at her. “True. Very true. Whaddya say we go out? Grab some breakfast or something? I’m buy-ing.” He singsongs the last syllables as he flaps his cash in the air.

Finally, the kid giggles, and I feel my jaw unclench a little. I don’t know what the fuck is up with this…this manic energy of his right now, but if the kid’s amused, then I guess I can tolerate it. As long as he’s not swerving into fucking traffic again.

“Oh, um, well…” She lowers her Froot Loops. “Are you going too, Blue?”

I don’t even think about it.

“Yes,” I say. “If you want.”

“Um, sure.” The kid nods. Then looks at Pan. “That’d be fun.”

“Yeah?” Pan says. “Awesome.”

And maybe I’m imagining it, but the smile on his face feels like the realest thing I’ve seen on him in days.

CHAPTER 13

TINK

Oh, my head.

I fling the duvet over my head and all but hiss at the light filtering into my room.

I am hungover. Definitely hungover. Hungover in a way that I haven’t been in months, years, maybe ever. My limbs feel stretched out and achy, my head is throbbing, and my mouth and stomach are sharing a sour feeling that makes me crave water and also gag at the thought of drinking it.

Stupid Lagoon. Stupid Zuzu. Stupid sugary drinks. Stupid⁠—

A wave of nausea rockets over me, and I scramble from under my duvet for the trash can—but no. The moment passes. And now that I’ve been exposed to the light of day a second time, I might as well sit up. So I do, giving myself a good ten seconds of staring at the floor, elbows on knees, before I strip off last night’s sweaty T-shirt and replace it with…well, another T-shirt. Clean, at least, but still. I have this sudden need for something else to wear—one of those cozy two-piece sets, a big oversized sweatshirt with the neck cut out. Or pajamas, real pajamas, the matching top-and-bottom kind made of that thin, soft cotton that’s always cool to the touch.