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Maybe I'm catastrophizing. Maybe I'm the only one taking this whole situation seriously.

I think I'm just exhausted.

Dwelling on all this shit isn’t helping. I go through the things we've already done. Again.

We’re driving his car instead of mine.

No personal belongings other than what we had on us when we left.

No cell phones.

I got rid of the bat Ira touched at Dave's house—it’s in a thousand pieces at the bottom of an industrial-sized garbage can.

We cleaned out our bank accounts. I have a thousand dollars in twenties in my wallet. He has less than two hundred after paying his phone bill Monday. I should have told him there wasn't a need for that.

I should have told him a lot, actually.

Our biggest issue is the scariest one: we have no real way of getting a different car unless something huge happens. Part of my brain has already started cataloguing rest stops along I-77. Tiny gas stations. Somewhere that I might run inside for three seconds without locking my car. There are people with warrants who won't talk to the police if their car goes missing—that's our target. Drug dealers. Kidnappers. Someone with a past as shady as ours.

Killing people for two years makes you think about things differently.

It was a game set on easy before.

I researched thoroughly, planned everything, and never deviated. Not once. I adjusted when things went sideways and went on with my life.

Nothing could have prepared me for Dave's house.

“Do you think we should get wigs?” Ira asks. “I could probably pass for hot goth mommy.”

My snort turns into a laugh that clenches my stomach and makes my head stop hurting. He lets go when I fold my arms over the table and lay my head on them, trying to smother the sound before it gets us kicked out or gives someone a reason to look twice.

By the time I look up, wiping tears of laughter from my face, he’s grinning. Actually grinning. He’s been smiling this whole time, but it’s not the one he always wears. This one is. It’s bright enough to light up his eyes and turn his face red.

I put my chin on my hand. “You’re going to pretend to be a girl?”

“Why not? Obviously, I’d be hot in a short skirt.”

“Your legs are hairier than mine.”

Ira covers his mouth when his hyena-laugh comes out.

“Anti-fun and anti-progressive,” he says. “Are you telling me to shave?”

Pain shoots through my cheek, back into my temple, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s because I’m smiling too wide.

“If you’re wearing a miniskirt then, yeah.”

We go quiet when the waitress drops the plate of fries and chocolate shake on the table. Whipped cream drips off the side, sliding down the frosty glass and pooling on the table. It’s driving me fucking nuts, but I’m too tired to put a napkin under it.

Ira slides the messy glass over to me.

“I can’t eat,” I mumble.

He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, well, I hate chocolate, but I’ve seen you drink chocolate milk a couple times. Sugar yourself.”

“Vomiting is one of my biggest fears.”

“No judgement, but judgement.” He leans his head on my shoulder, tangling his fingers with mine under the table until I twist my wrist to hold his hand. “Could also make you feel better, Beckett. Sugar cures everything laughter can’t.”