Sometimes, when I love a book, I need to get out to finish it. And I mean, get out—like, go someplace where I feel like the ending will be all the more momentous.

It’s early evening, the day before the last day of winter break. I have ten pages left in On the Road.

Mom and Dad don’t usually approve of me going out and wandering the streets when it gets close to dark. But it won’t take long. It’s only ten pages, after all.

So I don’t tell them; I just leave.

And I know where I’m headed, too.

The grass in the schoolyard is frosted over. The metal bars on the jungle gym are iced, and it looks like if I touch my tongue to it, I’ll be stuck until God knows when. I wonder how cold this winter has been compared to last winter in Warmouth. It hasn’t snowed or anything, but there’s a constant chill. In years past, it’s gotten weirdly warm around Christmastime. One Christmas Eve, I even remember wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt.

I prefer the cold in the wintertime, though; it just feels better that way. More momentous.

I pick a swing and tip it up, letting its collection of frost water drizzle out. The sunlight won’t last much longer, and if I want to finish the book here, I need to get started. I crack it open, exhale a cloud of breath, and begin reading.

That’s when I smell it.

Cigarette smoke.

I turn my head toward the big oak tree at the corner of the yard. Two benches sit there, angled oddly around the tree’s vast roots.

Nobody there. No curl of smoke rising up from anywhere that I can see.

But then I hear from behind me a loud, slick scrape, followed by, “Farm! What are you doing here?”

I turn around. And, there, on his way down from what we called “the big slide” as kids, is Bobby Handel.

“Bobby?” I ask. “What are you—?”

“Hey, don’t ask questions!”

Bobby is crossing the enormous sandbox filled with pea gravel where all the jungle gyms are. He has something balled up inside his fist.

Either that, or he’s just making a fist.

He stops about halfway to me and bends down like he’s about to puke or something. But he doesn’t puke. Instead, he digs out a little hole in the pea gravel, drops something in, then covers it up again.

I put two and two together.

“Are you smoking out here, Bobby?”

He looks up, his face scrunched up and red—from cold or anger or acne, I’m not sure. “Farm. I said no questions.”

“Are you stupid?”

That sets him off. Bobby comes running at me full speed.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should try to dodge and run. One thing is for certain, though: I’m not about to try to fight Bobby Handel.

Bobby flings himself full force at me and knocks me off the swing. I manage to cling to On the Road as he pulls me down, and I hold it up in front of my face. “Bobby! Bobby!” I shout. “Stop!”

He rears his fist back. “Stupid Farm. Probably gonna run tell your dad and get me in trouble—”

“Bobby, what the hell?” I push—I push hard. Somehow I manage to get him off of me. He slides onto his butt in the wet grass.

“Jesus, Farm,” he says.

I sit up. “What the hell, okay?” I drop the copy of On the Road into my lap and notice its torn cover.

“Aaaggghhhh!” I roar. “You tore my book!”

Bobby looks aghast. “I—” he starts, but I stop him.

“You tore my book, Bobby. And all I wanted was to come here and get some peace and quiet, just like I always want, but no, God forbid I set foot on school property wanting some peace and quiet when you’re around!” I throw the book—not at Bobby directly, but also kind of at him. It sails over his shoulder and lands with a painful crumpling sound.

“Jesus, Farm,” he says again.

“And, I mean, are you smoking out here? For Christ’s sake! Your mom died from cancer. Remember that? When we were five? Do you want cancer?”

Bobby wrinkles his face. “Sure!” he says. “Sure I want it!”

“You know, my granddad’s got cancer, too, now. And, guess what? He’s probably gonna die from it! And you know what else? He’s not a smoker! And neither was my grandma when she got cancer, and neither was your mom!”

“So what?”

“So, what I’m saying is that freaking cancer is a real enough possibility without you having to freaking ask for it.”

Bobby jumps at me again. “So what, Farm! So what?”

I press against his shoulders. “Bobby, stop!” I shout. “Get a grip!”

He wraps his arms around me and lands a punch to my back, though not hard enough to hurt. In fact, Bobby is softening; I feel it. Eventually, it’s like I’m holding on to a big stick of butter. “Bobby,” I say, out of breath. I feel him shaking. In that moment, a switch flips. Bobby Handel is crying, and I’m holding him, and maybe it’s what I wish I could have done for him when we were five. When he was five years old and had lost his mom and didn’t understand it; he probably still doesn’t understand it, because how can you really understand something like that?

I pat his back. “Bobby,” I say. I feel a wetness land against my hand and realize I’m crying, too. “Bobby, I—” A sob escapes from him and reverberates against my chest. “Bobby, I’m sorry,” I say, and I hold him close for what must be minutes, though not even hours would be enough, really. Not even if I’d been able to hold him through all the years of our childhood would it have been enough. Enough to replace the emptiness Bobby feels.

“Do you have a scar?” Bobby asks. We’re crossing the parking lot outside the school. “From that time. You know, that time when I pushed you into the locker and you got that cut?”

I shake my head. “No, why?”

We’re walking so close I feel Bobby shrug. “Gooby said so.”

“Matt did?” I turn to look at him. His face is still red but probably more from the cold now than anything. “Hm, wonder why.”

“Yeah, he said you had a scar, and that if I ever laid a hand on you again, he would get his dad to call my dad.”

“Ha!” I try to picture it. Mega laid-back Landon or high-strung Ron. Either one of them speaking on the phone to Tim Handel seems like the setup for some kind of comedy skit. “Wonder which one,” I say.

Bobby cracks a smile. The way his lips are chapped at the corners makes me think of the Joker. “What are they like?” he asks. “The Goobys.”

I think about that for a second.

“Well, Mr. Landon is super chill, and he has this awesome scraggly beard. And Mr. Ron—” I remember sitting around the breakfast table with them that morning before they left. “Mr. Ron is a little more uptight, I guess. But he’s cool, too. I mean, they have a nice balance between the two of them.” I pause. “And Matt’s just—”

How do I begin?

My shoe is untied, and I stop to tie it, setting my newly tattered copy of On the Road down beside me.

“Sorry,” I say, “I just gotta tie this.” I fiddle with the laces, my fingers all pink and cramped from the cold. “Gosh, it’s hard to do when it’s this freezing out.”

Bobby stops a couple steps ahead of me and turns. He eyes the book for a second, then tilts his head up to look at the night sky. The moonlight catches in his breath. “I’m sorry about your book,” he says.

With some effort, I pull the knot tight on my shoe. “Oh, psh.” I stand up. “It’s all right.”

“I could buy you a new one, you know. I’ll—”

I catch up to him and we start walking again. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“But I’d kinda like to, if you’d let me.”

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “But this copy’s special.”

Bobby stands still, and I turn to face him. He slides his hands into his pockets. “Well, now I feel really bad,” he says.

“No!” I swat the air with my hand. “No, no, it’s special because now I have a memory to go with it.”

He squints his eyes at me, unsure. And then I laugh. “I mean, it’s the memory of the night we became friends.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets and looks up again. Then he crosses his arms. “True,” he says. And we don’t say anything else until we reach the parking lot of Yarborough Antiques some minutes later.

“Well,” I tell him, “I go this way.” I swing my head toward home.

“All right,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple days.”

“Ugh. That soon? Man, where did this winter break go?”

Bobby shrugs. “It sure as hell beats me.” He looks back up Barrow Street, all the Christmas lights still up and illuminating every storefront. It doesn’t matter that it’s dark out, really. Barrow Street is still light as day.

“It seems like they leave these lights on longer and longer every year,” I say. “I mean, New Year’s is over, for crying out loud.”

“Yeah,” Bobby says. “I always miss it, though, when they take it all down.”

I follow his gaze all the way to the courthouse lawn. The light from the big Christmas tree leaves the William Griggers statue in shadow. The brave shall know nothing of death.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, me, too,” I tell Bobby.