Page 131 of The Turning of the Tables

I wasn’t very good at life, clearly. I wondered if this was going to end up being as disastrous as some of my other major life decisions. So far, about the only good choices I’d made were running away from home and going into forensic science. Two out of a whole bunch. It wasn’t a good track record.

I overbought food—or, rather, I overbought what I thought I needed, which ended up at least addressing the hunger problem, although I didn’t feel actually full. At least Hardee’s had fried chicken in both tenders and sandwich form, and french fries, of course. I augmented this with a bruised banana and a sad red delicious apple from the convenience store tucked on the far side of the plaza. I contemplated getting myself a latte or frappuccino, but I wanted to sleep first—I’d get coffee when I was ready to get back on the road.

When I finished my dinner, I went back to the car, dug out my blanket in case it got cool at night, and rearranged the passenger seat so that I could be a tiny bit less uncomfortable than I would be if I tried to sleep on the driver’s side.

I pushed back the seat, trying to make my brain slow down so that I could sleep—God knew my body needed it.

Naturally, sleep eluded me.

I don’t know why I thought that it might not—I’m an insomniac most of the time, anyway, even when I’m in actual darkness and in a comfortable bed. Reclining in a stiff car seat in a parking lot with overhead lights—that I was admittedly as far from as I dared—that painted weirdly angled shadows inside the Cruiser.

So I did what I always do when I can’t sleep.

I pulled out my phone.

And then remembered that I hadn’t texted either Quincyor Noah, so I did that, telling them both that I was in Ohio for the night.

Quincy sent back a smiley face and a zzz emoji.

Noah asked me if I was sure I knew what I was doing.

I wasn’t, of course, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

I need to do this, I told him.

I’m worried about you, he sent back.

Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.

Promise you will check in. Every day.

I promise.

I put the phone down on my stomach, screen facing in. I thumbed the volume, putting the phone on mute. I didn’t want to see or hear if Noah responded.

I hated that this was upsetting him. I was going to do it anyway, but I hated that it was hurting Noah. I didn’t know what to do about that, though—I needed to do this, and I had no idea how to do both.

I flipped over my phone. Nothing.

Love you Nono, I sent.

Right before I shut my screen off again, his message came in.Love you too Sethy. Be careful.

35

SETH MAYS

What would you do if I were outside your door right now?

He didn’t answer me,which was itself enough of an answer, I guess. I didn’t really know what else to do, since my butt was almost completely dead after having driven for sixteen total hours—I donotrecommend doing that drive by yourself, by the way—but I’d gone through about half of what little savings I’d had in the weeks after getting fired, and it had cost me a couple hundred in gas and tolls to get here, so my wallet was really running on empty. Even a couple days of hotel rooms, and I’d be living out of my car.

I’d texted Elliot from the bottom of his driveway, which led up a hill and around a wooded corner. I put my ten-year-old FJ Cruiser into gear and followed the curve, and in front of me was a brown house that absolutely screamedElliot. Brown stained wood, stone, and a garden that looked like it had almost literally exploded all over the place.

It took me far too long to realize that the front door wasopen, and Elliot was standing in it, leaning against the doorframe. Like some sort of suave romance-novel hero.

I put the Cruiser in park and half-slid out the door, my legs aching and my knee almost buckling from the pain. My mouth was dry, and I held on to the car door to keep myself on my feet.

“I thought you said you were outside my door,” Elliot called.