Page 215 of What We Burn

He checks his mirrors. I wait. Knox doesn’t do information on demand. Knox does information when Knox is ready, and the timeline is his, and if you push him, he just gets quieter, which is a feat given that his baseline is near-silence.

“We’re having dinner at Milo’s mom’s place.”

Every molecule of blood in my body evacuates my face.

“What?”

“Gloria. The dads are making dinner. We’re expected at six.”

“Knox. No. Absolutely not.” I’m sitting up straight now, both hands on the dashboard like I’m bracing for impact. “You remember how weird it was last time?”

“I do. But she asked for you specifically.”

“Knox. The dads were wearing shock collars and there were six plots in the garden that were definitely not tomatoes.”

“The food was great.”

“That’s not the point! The point is that woman is a federal crime in a housecoat and I am not going back there without a will and a dental records update.”

Knox’s mouth does something I rarely see. It twitches. The corner lifts, just barely, fighting against the granite of his face. And then—a sound. Low. Rumbling. Building in his chest like an engine turning over.

Knox is laughing.

I’ve heard him laugh with the others, when my fart took out an entire room full of men. But this is the first time I’ve heard just him. The sound is so unexpected and so warm that my panic dissolves into bewildered delight.

“You’re messing with me,” I say.

“Little bit.”

“You—Knox Mehlar, you absolute—” I punch his arm, which is like punching brick. “Where are we actually going?”

He glances at me. The laugh has settled into his eyes now.

“You’ll see, Fury.”

We drive for another five minutes before I see it. The lights first—a smear of color against the darkening sky, reds and blues and yellows spinning and blinking in patterns that can only mean one thing.

“Is that⁠—”

“Boardwalk carnival,” Knox says. “Milo’s idea. Eli tried to veto it.”

“An amusement park?”

“Don’t get excited. The rides are held together with rust and optimism.”

But I am excited. I’m pressing my face against the window like a kid, watching the Ferris wheel turn against the purple sky, the swing ride spinning, the flash of a roller coaster cresting a hill. I can hear the music from here, tinny and bright, the universal soundtrack of not taking anything seriously.

Knox pulls into the lot and parks, and I see them before he’s cut the engine.

Milo is leaning against the entrance gate holding a stick of cotton candy bigger than his head. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says I’M WITH STUPID with an arrow pointing in every direction. When he sees the truck, he holds the cotton candy aloft like a torch of liberty.

Micah is beside him, hands in his pockets, smiling that easy, warm smile that makes strangers trust him and makes me want to crawl into his arms. He looks like he belongs here, relaxed, open, the only one of them who can pass for a normal person at a carnival without effort.

Eli is standing slightly apart, arms crossed, surveying the entrance with the expression of a man who’s been dragged to his own execution and is trying to find the dignity in it. His jaw is tight. While I watch, he moves two steps to his left—putting the ticket booth at his back instead of the open midway—and checks the gate again as a family pushes through it. He’s the only person in a hundred yards facing away from the rides.

Holden is reading the safety inspection certificate posted beside the gate. Line by line. He’s got his phone out and I think he might be photographing it for future reference.

“Oh my God,” I say.