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“You got school today.”

“I assumed the morning after finding a tracker under my car might come with a hall pass.”

“Mercy said you can stay up here if you want.”

I think about the School of the Dead, the colored light, Mercy’s sharp mouth, Lark’s gossip, Petal’s belly, Junie’s gold hoops, and the little palette knife tucked into my apron pocket downstairs. Then I think about Razor making my world smaller every time I let fear choose the walls.

“No. I’m going.”

Bitter turns off the faucet. “Figured.”

“You did?”

“You don’t like being pushed out of your own life.”

I stare at him.

He reaches for a dish towel without looking at me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You say nothing like it’s something.”

“It is.”

His mouth curves because he hears his own words from last night. I look away before the warmth in my chest gets embarrassing.

We get ready like two people who have done mornings together before, which is unfair because we have not. I brush my teeth in his bathroom while he checks the cameras. He gives me a clean towel without making me ask. I pull on shorts, a soft blue top, and my pink flats because the festival might be full of stalkers, bikers, dead squirrels, and whatever Boogie considers legal entertainment, but I am not letting Razor take color from me.

When I step out, Bitter looks me over with approval he tries to hide and fails.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bitter.”

“You’re wearing the pink shoes.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re stubborn.”

“They’re shoes.”

“They’re a statement.”

I glance down at them. “Good.”

He nods like that answer pleases him too much, grabs his cut, and opens the door. He does not step out first. He stands aside, lets me choose when to move, and scans the stairwell over my shoulder.

That feels like something too.

He takes me downstairs to the garage instead of directly to the school. My pale blue hatchback sits inside one of the bays, looking small and nervous between two bikes and a black truck. The scratched word on the driver’s door has been covered with a square of brown paper taped carefully over the paint.

I stop, and Bitter stops with me.

“CSI cleared it. No more trackers. Brake line’s good. Engine’s untouched.”