He’d had nothing, and he’d run into the building. A beam had collapsed on his leg, broke it in three places, and burned his skin badly.

After a year of physical therapy, he could jog, but with horrible pain. Another one of Remy’s whispered secrets: the box of prescription painkillers he’d found in the lockbox under the sheriff’s bed.

That his dad, who’d once loved a gin martini, had cut out alcohol to counterbalance the damage all those meds would do to his organs.

It was one of the angry embers burning in my gut, that in real life that was what being a hero looked like. That every day, Sheriff Nakamura woke with pain in his leg and an itch behind his teeth and a whole lot of people he’d loved and lost, not to mention a son who screamed himself awake.

That Remy was too brave or selfless to ask his dad to quit, and instead spent his life waiting for the world to try to take something else from him, even while promising his friends the impossible, that he would protect them.

Sometimes the anger was too much. Sometimes I thought that if you peeled back my skin, that would be all that was there: a burning red hate for this world and what it did to people callously, every second, every day.

Remy hadn’t mentioned the dreams in easily two years.

The crash was doing the same thing to him that it was doing to me: dredging up everything we’d finally found hidden shelves for.

“Your dad’s okay,” I said, touching his hand on the tank. “He’s safe. This isn’t going to hurt him.”

Remy scrunched his eyes shut and threaded his fingers through mine. When he opened his eyes again, I could tell how little he’d slept. There were bags under his eyes, and his left eyelid twitched.

“They’re different this time,” he murmured. “The dreams.”

“Different?”

“More . . . real, I guess.” He shook his head. “I’m even seeing them when I’m awake. Whenever I zone out it’s like . . . God, I’m sorry. It’s stupid for me to even complain about this.”

“Remy.” I squeezed his hand. I didn’t know how to comfort him. It wasn’t something I did, for anyone. I wished I could be more like him, make promises and believe I could keep them.

His dark eyes lifted to mine.

“The stress is messing with all of us,” I said. “No one’s sleeping well. Levi got this Gary Busey–shaped bruise sleepwalking, and last time I saw Nick, he was practically raving about a tunnel of pianos.”

The corner of Remy’s mouth ticked into a faint smile. “Normal.”

“Exceptionally.”

He let out a breath and pushed off the propane tank, releasing my hand. “You’re right. I’m sure it’s stress, but everything’s going to be all right. I need to just chill.” He glanced up the tracks. “I should get back. If my dad realizes I’m gone, he’ll probably go straight for an arrest this time. You’re sure you’re okay? I mean, as much as you can be?”

I nodded, perhaps too emphatically. “I’ll e-mail that guy and figure this out.”

Remy pulled me into another tight hug, and I closed my eyes and sank into it. Who knew the next time I would get to hug him, or anyone? Probably not until Splendor’s next natural disaster. I should savor this while I could.

“You still have your walkie-talkie?” Remy mumbled into my head. I nodded, and he stepped back. “Let me know what you find out. Actually, just keep me posted in general. I mean it, Fran. Please.”

I smiled weakly. “Sure.”

“I love you, you know,” he said.

My heart leapt.

Arthur and I didn’t even say that to each other, but just as with their hugging, Remy and Levi tossed the phrase around like it was free candy in a parade. Often when it landed, it felt more like a grenade than a miniature Snickers.

Explosive, dangerous, overwhelming.

I also craved it, wanted to hear it again as soon as it faded, wished I knew how to pick it apart so I could understand what it meant.

I never knew what to say back. Of course I loved Remy. Sometimes I even wondered if I was in love with him, or if there was even a difference. Sometimes I thought he wondered too, but not enough to interfere with his revolving door of short-term relationships with the girls the rest of us never met, except in the school hallways.

Either way, whether I just loved Remy or I love-loved him, opening yourself up like that backfired.

I’d learned from the accident that people, even the ones you love, are temporary.

Case in point: In two weeks, the two people I’d let the deepest into my life would be leaving Splendor.

“You too,” I finally said.

Remy smiled and rolled his eyes, gave Droog one last ruffle of the ears. “I know.” Then he grabbed his bike and turned back down the tracks.

I wanted to pretend it was any other sticky August night, that we’d met here for the rush of sneaking out and nothing had happened in that field on Jenkins Lane.

But before I could do that, I had to e-mail CitizenOfTheBlackMailbox and figure out how to get rid of this . . . this—I couldn’t finish the thought; if I did, I’d panic.

I climbed onto my bike and pedaled back to the house, already drafting my e-mail to CitizenOfTheBlackMailbox in my head.

As soon as we hit the clearing, Droog started straining again. I barely managed to make it to the shed without her pulling me off my bike, and as soon as I disembarked, she jerked her leash free and took off full tilt back toward the fence.