The food arrived while he was still staring down at his phone, but his appetite had fled. Prank, he thought. I’ll kill whoever did this. His palms grew sweaty around the phone until he shoved it into his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

“You okay?”

Jordan stared at him, squinting while he sucked down his milk shake. Shrugging, Dan pushed a fork halfheartedly through his potato salad. He couldn’t explain the message from Micah, especially not there, with Abby still chatting away with Fats. Now she was taking notes, scribbling names and places in between bites while the old man pulled up a chair next to the booth, apparently cozy enough for a long visit.

“Not sure the food’s agreeing with me,” Dan finally whispered. Just the smell of it made him sick now, anxiety turning his guts to acid.

Who would be cruel enough to play a prank like this? Certainly not Abby or Jordan, and as far as he knew, his twisted old roommate, Felix, was still locked away. He doubted the institution would let him have access to the internet, let alone social media. The only living person left who knew both Dan and Micah was Cal, a friend of Micah’s from NHC who’d been a total dick to Dan and his friends last fall—to put it mildly. But according to Jordan, Cal had done a complete 180 in the months since then. Dan’s mind spun, coming up empty.

“Can’t blame you,” Jordan said. “That potato salad looks kinda rancid. Want some of my fries?”

“Oh, uh, sure, yeah.” He couldn’t go through this again, lying to his friends. They always seemed to find out anyway. He’d tell them later, when they were alone. Dan forced a smile and took one of Jordan’s fries. Then he rifled through his bag, grabbed his meds, and choked down one of the little blue pills with his soda. His disorder always got worse when he was feeling especially anxious.

“Long car rides make me sorta queasy, too,” Jordan added. Then, all at once, he seemed to realize that the look on Dan’s face had nothing to do with the food or the car ride. “Dan, what’s wrong? It’s something else, isn’t it?”

Wasn’t it always?

Dan scraped for an answer, his heartbeat speeding up. “I brought one of the files.” Glancing at Abby, he lowered his voice. “You know, the files? I know we sorted through most of it at NHC, but I had to make sure I had seen it all. Because of my family history, you know?”

Jordan went a little green, lowering his milk shake. His big, dark eyes grew bigger behind his curly fringe. “Oh.”

“Yeah. There’s stuff in there about my dad, maybe my mom, too, but I can’t be sure. I already went through it all, and I didn’t really find anything concrete, just more dead ends.”

“Why were their files mixed up in the professor’s things?” Jordan whispered.

Dan gulped. He really hadn’t meant to do this right here, right now, but now that he’d started talking, it was like this confession had been building behind a dam in his brain, waiting for the opportunity to be released.

“Remember how Professor Reyes said there were things I could see that other people couldn’t?”

“I don’t know—maybe? There was a lot going on that night.”

“Well, I . . . You know what, never mind.”

“Hey, I mean, if you need to talk about it,” Jordan started, but suddenly Dan wasn’t ready for that. This was not the right time, with Abby having a congenial conversation on one side and with hours still to go before another night in a tent.

“We should get going,” he blurted, looking outside to find the kind of countryside darkness that was so dense it felt oppressive, even through glass. “It’s late, and we wanted to get an early start tomorrow, right?”

Dan said it loudly enough for Abby to hear. She cleared her throat, glaring.

Luckily, Jordan was tired enough to yawn or loyal enough to fake it. “I’m beat, too, and we still have tents to set up.”

Outnumbered, Abby gave in, but not before thanking Fats for all his time and information. She frowned at the boys as if they were in on some conspiracy against her. Which, technically, they were.

Dan gave her an apologetic smile. “Oh, Mr. Buckhill,” he said, catching the man before he made it back to the kitchen. “Could you please give this flashlight to Jake Lee? We tried to catch him next door but the sign said he’d be over here.”

Fats smiled. “Well, I would if I knew who Jake Lee was.”

“Jake Lee . . . the mechanic?” Dan said, but his stomach was already twisting with dread. The realization dawned on him with sickening clarity: Jake had never asked them to pay for the tire.

“That man over there, Greg Mackey—if you need a mechanic, he’s your guy.”

Dan, Abby, and Jordan all looked at one another in silence. Gathering their bags quickly, they left the flashlight and a generous tip on the table before running out to the car and the night.