I’m leaving the Hyundai here. I’m taking my fat bike. No one will notice it’s gone, and it handles well in the snow. I can ride it on streets or trails. I can get to town without being seen.

  I have to get some quick cash. There’s a TD Bank by the library and I can take $750 out of the ATM right away. That’ll help until I can withdraw the rest, hopefully tomorrow afternoon from an actual bank teller when I’m in Seattle.

  There are a few Uber and Lyft drivers around here, but it’s smartest to call the airport shuttle because they probably won’t check my phone records right away. I’ll have them pick me up at the bank, pay them in cash, and give them a fake name. There’s a flight from Burlington that leaves at five a.m., connects in Chicago, and gets into Seattle around noon. I can clear out and close the account there, and then travel by bus over the Canadian border to Vancouver. My passport will be registered as entering Canada and so that’s where everyone will assume I am.

  But here’s what I’ll do. I’ll ditch my phone there, and then have a cab bring me out to the woods south of Chilliwack. Google Maps shows that I can hike a few miles and sneak back over the Canadian border. I might be back in Washington before anyone even realizes I’ve left Vermont!

  Then my next step will be to use some cash to buy a used car from a private seller. I already checked Craigslist, and northern Washington is swimming with junkers. Which is all I need. A thousand miles of transport.

  I’ll spend the next day traveling to the Mexican border. I’ve heard that the border patrol doesn’t even check passports when you’re crossing over that way. It’s only when you’re coming back into the U.S. By Thursday, while everyone is looking for me in British Columbia, I’ll be on the beach in Baja, completely undetected and with enough money to buy a new identity.

  And yes, I realize the plan isn’t foolproof and some improvising might be required, but it’s so much better than sticking around.

  GRAYSON

  “WE DON’T KNOW where the hell Cole is,” I tell Gus. “And we don’t care. When Meeka dumped his ass, so did we. You’d be wise to do the same. That kid is trouble.”

  I’m actually feeling pretty bad right now. Gus is all hangdog. Honestly looks like he misses Cole. He’d be the only one.

  “You’re saying you haven’t heard from him?” Gus asks. “Because I’m worried about him.”

  “Are you?” Meeka says. “Really?”

  “Well . . . yeah. He’s my friend.”

  “He’s fine,” Meeka says, with more than a little bite to her voice. “In fact, I’ll call him for you to confirm. How’s that sound?”

  This perks Gus up. His head rises and so does his voice. “You’re calling Cole?”

  “Yeah,” Meeka says. “I’ll check up on him for you.”

  “Good idea,” Holly says.

  It’s a move. They’re trying to get a reaction out of Gus. I bet Meeka is hoping he’ll blurt out, “But Cole is dead!” And Holly is probably hoping for “But how do you know Cole is still alive?” or some shit.

  It doesn’t work. Because the kid is suddenly juiced. He hops down from the bench and pulls out his phone. “I can call him.”

  Meeka pauses. “Oh.”

  “I mean, you guys had a tough breakup, right?” Gus says. “That’s what Grayson implied. So why don’t I talk to him?”

  This throws Meeka for a split second, and she turns to look at the firebox. Then she waves a hand like whatever. “Sure, go ahead.”

  Holly must be thrilled by this. I know I am. Because if Gus calls Cole, then Cole might actually pick up. No matter what Gus knows, we’ll have rustled that snake out of the bushes and shown Meeka that we were right.

  Gus starts to tap his phone, and it’s so quiet in here that I can hear the sound of his finger on the glass from all the way across the room. I look to Holly and she’s stone-faced. Meeka too. I know we’re all on edge, but we all want to see how this plays out.

  But before he places the call, Gus lowers the phone and says with a sigh, “Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him for days. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. He won’t even respond to my meme. And if he finds out I’m hanging with all of you, he might never talk to me again.”

  “That’s not true,” Meeka says in a mock sympathetic tone. “He adores you. Because you’ve done so much for him, Gus. You told us. The programs. The sites. His beacons. It was all you. You controlled everything of Cole’s, didn’t you?”

  Again with the beacons. I’m not sure what that means, but Meeka seems to know.

  “We were a good team,” Gus tells her.

  The fire is really pumping now, and it’s getting too hot in here, so I bend down to adjust the intake. The decrease in oxygen calms the flames, and that takes some light out of the room real quick. Shadows dance on faces. Sinister shit.

  “But now it’s only you, isn’t it?” Meeka says to Gus. “Carrying on Cole’s . . . crusade? That’s what the Cavalry is, right? Memes and misogyny? LOLZ and white supremacy?”

  Gus puts his hand on his chest. “I . . . I . . . I . . . well, it’s my . . . that’s—”

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Meeka says. “Trying to prove you’ve got power over us? Rub our noses in Logan’s mistake?”

  “It’s only a silly picture,” Gus says. “I’ll admit that I wanted some revenge. But I see now that—”

  “Strange way to get revenge,” Meeka says. “You obviously want something from us. So what is it?”

  Gus takes a step toward the door and says, “I mean, I was a meme once too, you know? I know it can sting. People can be cruel. But it passes. I’m sorry I did that to you. I was selfish. My version wasn’t even good. It was the others who were mean. Duck, duck, goose? That was my way of saying—”

  “I’m not talking about the meme,” Meeka says. “Your ‘revenge’ is about more than a meme. That’s crystal fuckin’ clear.”

  “I should go,” Gus says, and his hand is on the doorknob.

  It’s strange. Holly has been pretty quiet for the last few minutes. Normally, she captains the ship. But she’s been letting Meeka prod and Gus squirm. Maybe she’s been waiting for the perfect moment to ask what’s actually a good question.

  “Why did you get in Meeka’s car?” Holly says to Gus.

  Gus pulls back. Not that he’s offended. Surprised is more like it. “Um . . . because you invited me,” he says to her, like the answer is obvious.

  And Holly says, “But you told us that you’re not dumb. So obviously you knew something was up. And, still, you got in the car.”

  It’s a fair point. Why did he get in? Because he’s a little horndog and he hoped one thing might lead to another? That’s what I thought at first, but he has to know he has no chance with these girls, right? I mean, I don’t even have a chance with these girls.

  “Why did you get in the car?” Holly asks him again.

  Gus turns away and whispers something. I can’t make it out.

  “What’s that, now?” I ask.

  “I’m desperate. And . . . lonely.”

  It fucking guts me the way he says it. Soft and sad. And so true. He is desperate. And lonely as hell. I’m remembering what he told me in the shop yesterday. He said he made the meme because he “thought it might impress some people.” More specifically, he thought it might impress Cole. He thought it would bring his best friend back. From the people he believed stole that friend away. But it didn’t work—his friend won’t even answer his messages—and now he sees his only option is to reach out to the ones he hates. To make friends with his enemies.

  Someone dug Cole up. But it wasn’t this kid. This kid is too pathetic.

  “Go,” I say, and I point to the door.

  “Me?” he asks.

  “Go home,” I tell him. “I’m sorry if we freaked you out. It was our mistake. Go on home.”

  “I’d love to, but . . . she sorta drove me,” he says as he looks at Meeka. You can tell he’s pissed at her and you can tell she’s pissed at me.

  She glares at me, but she speaks to Gus. “Tell us about the beacons.”

  Who cares about these beacons she keeps harping on? Gus doesn’t seem to. He’s not saying a thing.

  “Come on,” I tell Meeka. “Let the kid go.”

  “Not until we learn about the beacons,” Meeka says.

  “Let’s go, dude,” I say to Gus as I lead him to the door. “Don’t sweat it. Meeka doesn’t like how she looks in that meme. Isn’t all shiny and ready for the gram, you know. Girls will be like that sometimes. Best not to worry about it. It’ll pass. I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Gus doesn’t move. He stares at Meeka and asks, “What do you know about the beacons?”

  “I know everything about Cole,” she says.

  Gus looks at his phone.

  So I look at his phone.

  What the . . .

  There’s a message on it.

  And it’s from Cole.

  One word: Here.

  And a set of coordinates, like the pin on a map.

  HOLLY

  “GUS?” Grayson says, like he’s confused.

  “I-I-I,” Gus stutters.

  “Gus?” Grayson says again, this time like he’s got a broken heart. And he curls two fingers, ordering Gus to give it over.

  Gus was fidgeting with his phone, but now he’s pressing it against his chest and saying, “Not this time.”

  “Really, man?” Grayson says, his hand now clenched into a fist. “You’re getting texts from Cole? Coordinates? And you’re acting like you don’t know what’s up? Don’t tell me Holly is right about you. Don’t tell me you helped him get out—”

  Meeka interrupts me. “Coordinates?” she asks Gus. “To what?”

  “All I have to do is hit send,” Gus says. “I’ve already dialed 911.”

  There are many scenarios of what might happen if the police show up. None of them end well for us. But not many end well for Gus either.

  “You’re not calling 911,” I say.

  “I definitely am,” Gus says. “You’re threatening me.”

  “We weren’t threatening you,” Grayson says, then he pulls a horseshoe from his pocket—really, a horseshoe?—and grips it, with the U pointing sideways, so it almost resembles a set of brass knuckles. “Now we’re threatening you.”

  I don’t know if Grayson will act on his threat. I’m not sure he shouldn’t.

  “Why did you get in the car?” I ask Gus a final time, because that’s the most important question right now, and if he doesn’t answer honestly, we might have to take the next step. “The desperate-and-lonely line doesn’t work. What do you want from us?”

  “To go home,” he says, and a tear slips down his face. “Because I’m confused. And I’m scared. And I’m worried about what happened to Cole.”

  “What happened to Cole?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Gus whimpers. “That’s why I got in the car. To find out where he was. I was worried. I thought maybe he and Meeka were back together and that’s why he didn’t want to talk to me. I thought I might see him, and everything would be okay. And we would all be friends and—”

  Grayson raises his hand and the horseshoe. His knuckles are bone white. He must be squeezing it so hard. “Stop the bullshit!” he yelps. “Where is Cole sending you, Gus? What are the coordinates?”

  The fire pops and crackles. For a moment, it’s the only sound in here. And suddenly I have a desire to see the fire break through the glass of the firebox and take this whole place down. Burn it all. Us along with it. Because that’s what we all deserve.

  But that’s not what’s going to happen. Because someone has to survive this mess. And that’s the person who cleans up this mess. Me.

  “We know what you did,” I say to Gus. “And you know what we did. So we’ll just have to do it better this time. To both of you.”

  I nod to Grayson.

  Grayson raises his horseshoe.

  Gus cowers.

  And someone says, “Go.”

  But this time it’s Meeka. She’s flung open the door, letting in a blast of snow and cold.

  “Gus, go!” she shouts.

  And Gus bolts through the door. Just like that, he escapes into the night.

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit.

  What now?

  Grayson decides what now.

  He punches.

  He punches wood.

  He punches metal.

  He punches until his knuckles bleed and drip and cover that horseshoe in fresh red. But thank god he doesn’t punch any of us.

  “We were so close!” he howls. “He would have led us to Cole! Why would you let him go now?!”

  Meeka scurries into a corner to shield herself from Grayson’s rage and Grayson keeps rampaging—he’s smashing some of his sculptures now. Wood. Metal. Plastic. Cracking and banging and splintering and I have to get out of here. I have to stop Gus. I have to go go go. I dash for the door. I fly after him.

  Outside, the snow is coming down hard, in big clumps of flakes. They hit my eyes as I chase Gus away from the sugarhouse and down the hill to Grayson’s driveway. Everything blurs. I can’t make out much detail, but I know I can catch the kid. There aren’t many people who can outrun me. And there aren’t many places he can hide.

  The ground is slippery, so I should be careful. What I’d give for a pair of cleats. But I try not to focus on that. I don’t slow down.

  When Gus’s feet hit the driveway, my mind hits a realization. I’m the one who will have to do something to him. Physically.

  Restrain him? Pull him back to the sugarhouse? I’m not sure. Something.

  I haven’t thought this through, and I don’t want to think it through. Thinking will slow me. I need to react. The time for negotiations is over.

  So I chase. And I get closer. And closer.

  And his head is on a swivel.

  And it’s all blurry and white.

  And he yells something. “Stop!” or “Help!” or something.

  And I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m capable of.

  He’s on the road now. Or next to it. In the grass.

  He’s faster than I thought he’d be, but I’m closing in.

  The snow is slick and I’ll use that to my advantage.

  I slide.

  And foot first, I take him down. Like he has a ball on a breakaway. Penalty box.

  And he tumbles into the road, wailing out in pain.

  And I’m up and I’m above him, feet planted on both sides of his shoulders.

  And he’s cowering and it’s now or never. I have to—

  Lights.

  Huge.

  Coming toward us on the road.

  My only thoughts?

  Did he hit send? Did he dial 911?

  But my body doesn’t care about thoughts.

  I lift my foot.

  LOGAN

  I’M ON MY BIKE, its fat tires ripping through the snow that keeps piling up. Mom questioned the purchase—it wasn’t cheap—but I’m not regretting it now. This thing is a monster, and I’m pushing it to the limit. There are a few ways I could get to town, but I don’t want to be seen, so I’m taking the long cut.

  Not far from here, there are mountain bike trails that lead past Huntington Farm. A private road snakes through the farm and connects to the rail trail that skirts the edge of the Malvern Loop and then bisects the rec path that leads to the parking lot of TD Bank. On a night like tonight, no one will be anywhere near those routes.

  So I ride, as hard and fast as my lungs and legs and these conditions allow. And time flashes by.

  I’ve biked these trails, and I’ve biked in the dark, but never at the same time. My mind can’t hold on to much more than the snow and the next rock, the next root. My headlamp is on full blast. If there are any animals in my way, they’ll scurry or they’ll be stunned. I’m not worried about chipmunks or raccoons, deer or skunk. But it’d be just my luck to run into a bear or a moose.

  Or something even scarier. The things I’ve been seeing in the woods—were they real? Or hallucinations? I sure don’t need any more of those.

  Somehow, I go a little harder. I go faster. I keep my focus on the trail and not the surrounding woods. The moonlight is peeking through the trees and the air is swirling with snow. I’d be freezing if I weren’t so worked up. My blood is pumping. It’s hot. It’s fire.

  The straps have loosened on my backpack and aren’t tight enough, so it flops and twists with every bump. But I don’t want to stop to adjust it. I keep going. Pedaling. Head up, head down. On the lookout.

  When I hit the roads at Huntington Farm, I get a big boost of confidence. I’m halfway there and the hardest part is over. The road is dirt, but it’s wide and flat and I can speed up, even with a few of inches of snow on it.

  I follow a fork in the road that leads left. I power up a hill through a patch of pear trees. I spot an old wooden sign marking the rail trail. It’s been a while since I’ve been on this stretch, but I know it’s maintained by a land trust. It should be in good shape.

  It’s gravel, and because of the wind and the height of the trees, there isn’t quite as much snow here, so I hit it at top speed. I’m racing along as fast as I’ve ever gone on a fat bike, which is amazing considering how late it is, how dark it is, and how tired I should be. My headlamp stabs the black—juiced by its endless lithium battery—creating a tunnel of light. The trail is level and wide. It might as well be paved.

  I make it far, and fast, and I catch a view of a sign that says the Malvern Loop parking lot is one hundred yards away. Meeka’s house and property aren’t very far from the lot. And it’s the spot where Cole’s life ended.