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I Because the Night
Friday 10:30 A.M.
I stood at the foot of the stairs with my duffel bag, trying to remember if I’d forgotten anything. I was tempted to unzip the bag and start going through everything one more time, despite the fact I’d spent the whole morning channeling my nervous energy into making sure I’d packed properly.
“Got it all?” my dad asked. He was sitting at the kitchen table, frowning at the New York Times crossword.
“If I don’t, I won’t remember until I’m halfway there,” I said, dropping my duffel at my feet. I stepped around the dog’s food and water bowls as I crossed to the fridge, pushing the cards and photos out of the way so I could open the door. It was still early, but I’d woken up with a start hours before my alarm, with everything that was going to happen today scrolling in a loop in my brain. “That’s the way this works.”
“How are you feeling?” He turned to face me fully, setting the crossword down. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was actually concerned or if he needed a break from trying to figure out five across.
“Nervous,” I admitted. But it would have been weird if I wasn’t, right? I’d never done anything like this before. “But excited, too.”
“Well, have fun,” my dad said. He gave me a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Be safe. Please come back in one piece.”
“I’ll do my best.” I glanced outside, at the bright sun and the wind blowing the trees around. “It’s nice out, but if you’re going to the park, you should probably bring Zyrtec.”
He grinned at me. “Duly noted.”
I leaned over him to look at the crossword. “Fun fact—did you know that a person who creates crosswords is called a cruciverbalist?”
“I did not,” my dad said as he picked it up again. “But I would appreciate any help you can offer on nineteen down.”
I gave him a quick hug, then headed across the kitchen and picked up my duffel bag. “If I give you the answers, you’re never going to learn.”
My dad groaned. “This is revenge for me telling you that whenever you had a math question, isn’t it?”
I laughed. “I’ll call when I get there.”
“Drive safe!” my dad called, already focused back on the crossword, muttering curses at David Kwong under his breath.
I stood there for just a second and looked at it—the quiet kitchen, my dad just where he was supposed to be, the clock ticking on the wall. I took in the scene—the one I knew I’d be missing all too soon—and let out a breath.
Then I picked up my duffel and headed out the door.
CHAPTER 1 Sunday
4:30 P.M.
Sitting alone on the floor of the bus station, I finally admitted to myself that the music festival might have been a mistake.
I was not normally a music festival–going person. I’d been to concerts at home in LA, of course—the Hollywood Bowl with my dad, the Greek Theatre or the Troubadour with my friends—but never a proper music festival, the kind that involved staying overnight. The kind that seemed to promise an experience like I’d seen in pictures on my Instagram and in cautionary-tale documentaries.
But when, six days ago, I’d gotten an out-of-the-blue call from Romy Andreoni—who I hadn’t talked to since graduation two months earlier and, truthfully, not a whole lot before that—asking me if I wanted to go to Silverspun this weekend with her, I hadn’t hesitated before saying yes. The Silverspun Music Festival—the Coachella of Nevada!—was located three hours north of Vegas, which meant it was not really near much else. That had seemed like a big part of its appeal then—that it was a real escape, and nobody else would be there other than the people who’d made a pilgrimage for the music. But now that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere, it was starting to seem like a bug, not a feature.
When I’d agreed to go to the festival, I could immediately see it playing out in my mind like a movie, the way I was sure everything would unfold. It would be an amazing adventure, all sun-dappled light and zippy montages, Romy and I running around and having fun and getting to listen to some of the best bands ever under endless western skies. And since I was going out of my comfort zone and taking a risk, like a heroine in a movie, I was sure I’d be rewarded with a great time, because that’s how things worked.
Which was all seeming more than a little ridiculous, given what had happened.
I’d been an hour into the ride south on the post-festival LA-bound bus—alone, since Romy had ditched me practically the moment the festival had started—when I’d realized I was no longer in possession of the pouch that contained both my phone charger and the bulk of my cash. I didn’t have any other form of money—I’d followed the advice of a website called Silverspun Secrets and had left my debit card and emergency credit card at home. But as I gripped my canvas bag and stared out the window, heart racing, I’d told myself it was okay—I still had enough cash in my pocket to get my car out of the garage at Union Station, and surely someone over the course of this seven-hour bus ride would lend me their charger. And if they didn’t, it would be all right, because I’d be home soon enough.
And that was when the bus had shuddered and slowed, smoke pouring from the engine, which did not seem to be a good sign.
The driver had taken the next exit, for Jesse, Nevada, and we’d crawled to the station, the engine making unhappy sounds the whole way. We had all disembarked and headed inside, milling around until the driver came back and told us to get our bags off the bus, because things weren’t getting fixed anytime soon. He told us that anyone wanting to get to LA tonight would have to first get themselves to Vegas, where another bus would be waiting. We were currently two hours north of Vegas—or an hour south of Ely. We could also get a bus in Ely, but it wasn’t leaving until midnight. If we didn’t take either of those options, we could wait here until seven a.m., when the replacement bus would arrive.
I had pulled up my ridesharing apps—despite the fact that the last time I’d checked my battery, it had been in the single digits—to see what my options were. And I quickly saw I didn’t have any. The cost of a two-hour ride to Vegas was so eye-popping I couldn’t consider it. Even getting to Ely was way out of my price range. My apps were linked to my debit card, and I didn’t have enough on there to pay for it.
All around me, people who looked older—like in their twenties and thirties—had pulled out their phones. I watched them all booking cars and going outside to wait—everyone seemed to know someone, and nobody else appeared to be alone. For just a moment, I thought about asking one of them if I could get a ride—but would that actually be more dangerous than just staying put? And what if I didn’t have enough money to cover my part of the trip—what then?
