I can’t sleep. Those eyes hang over me in the dark, like burning stones. Eyes might not speak louder than mouths, but they speak deeper, the terrible name: Jake? Jake?
We meet in the hideout. We get takeout and eat lunch there. We ride. We hang. We goof off. We spit-bomb cars from the bridge. We still laugh, but not as much as before. Sometimes I wonder if the others can see those eyes following me. My pumpkin seeds don’t taste so good anymore.