“You sound like my father and that’s not a compliment.”

“Tough and I’m serious.”

I stand and pull a shirt over my head. “My father’s been pushing me to get an insulin pump.”

“Will it do everything for you?”

I bob my head while slipping on my shoes. There’s still stuff I’ll have to do, but for what Abby is asking... “Yeah.”

Abby scrunches her face like she’s smelled something bad—like she doesn’t understand why I haven’t superglued the pump to my stomach already. “Then get one.”

“Stop selling drugs.”

Patented pissed-off Abby glare. “It’s not that simple.”

I throw out my arms to show that her answer is the same as mine.

“Get some clothes on and let’s get moving,” Chris demands as he pounds on the door. “I want food.”

Both Abby and I grin at how cranky Chris sounded. All of us will be bears today hence the last-day tradition of heading into the nearest town that has a diner and eating until we are close to collapsing.

Abby’s not shy as she kicks the unzipped sleeping bag we used as a blanket away to reveal her tank top and boy shorts. She’s also definitely not shy when she changes clothes in front of me. I press my back against the door to keep anyone from walking in and enjoy the show. Truth—my heart is pumping hard and I’m imagining all sorts of ways to cause Abby to make that soft sigh that drives me insane.

As if reading my thoughts, Abby glances at me from over my shoulder and blows a kiss. Damn this girl is the devil...or an angel with a mean streak.

“I think you should get the pump,” Abby says as she ties her sneakers.

Of course she does.

“Why don’t you want one?”

I rub at the stubble on my jaw. The pump isn’t massive, but it’s still something to contend with. It’s strapped to the outside of my body and will do this continuous flow of insulin for me and will even test my blood. Lots of benefits of having it, I can conceal it pretty easily, but if I take my shirt off, it’ll be obvious, and if I do anything too dangerous, I’ll have to take it off and that’s when it becomes a problem.

“I don’t want it to control me,” I say.

Abby’s head snaps up. “What?”

“I already have to think all the time about what I do—what I eat, when I eat, when to test, when to exercise, how much to exercise, how much insulin to give.”

Her forehead scrunches. “The pump would take some of that away.”

“Some.” Not all. Having to control and think about everything that goes in my mouth and the exercise—that’ll still be there. “If I have the pump, I’ve gotta think before I react. Am I going to do something that’s going to damage it? Should I take it off? Being diabetic—I don’t have much of a chance to not think about my condition. It’s there, in my face, all the time. Until I told everyone, being around the guys, being around you, taking on the dares, doing whatever I wanted to find the rush...that was the one time I didn’t have to think about the diabetes.”

Abby performs a slow blink as if she’s a cartoon character where the light bulb over her head shines to life. “I never thought of it that way.”

Most people wouldn’t.

“Isaiah’s threatening to leave without you.” Ryan pounds on the door this time. “Let’s go.”

“Boss man has spoken,” I say.

I offer my hand to Abby, she accepts and the two of us exit the room to applause from our friends for finally emerging.

Abby

“I think it was Tommy who shot me.” I cram the pancakes soaked in real maple syrup into my mouth and groan with how freaking good they taste. “Linus is his mentor so I’m sure Linus won’t act until he has proof and if I take Logan into town to prove that Tommy was the one that shot me, I’m putting a target on Logan’s back. But since I’ve already made the accusation, I’m pretty sure Tommy will slit my throat because what if Eric was playing me and I just made Tommy look bad? Either way, bad blood is now between us. Maybe, but maybe not. I sort of like breathing so I’d prefer to not bleed out. Do you think I can still get an additional side of bacon?”

We’re at this tiny diner about twenty minutes from the cabin. It’s like we stepped out of the 2000s and entered nineteen twentysomething and I like it because it reminds me of Grams’s house. There’s a long counter with old weathered men sitting on the old weathered stools.

Isaiah returned my cell under promise of death to not contact Linus and I had to admit that plan seemed like a winner. I check in with Nadia and Nate several times a day and I’ve even spoken with Grams on Skype at three every day, but I’m not sure she knew I was there. Both Nadia and Nate confirmed that her mental frame of mind was definitely shaky this week.

Not sure how I feel that I’m not missed. Good? Bad? A bit like throwing up?

I shove the thought away as I drizzle more syrup on my pancakes and then the nausea returns as I notice Logan’s plate: eggs, bacon, strawberries, water to drink. Not a carb in sight. My eyes widen and the fork I had lifted to my mouth starts to lower. I am the worst person ever.

Logan scoops up his eggs, shoves a huge helping into his mouth, and mumbles to me, “Doesn’t bother me. Eat or I’ll force-feed you.”

Right, Logan will be irritated if we act differently. I can live with that and I can definitely live with eating pancakes. Before I insert some delicious fantasticness into my mouth, I glance up at the round table, and except for Logan because we’ve already covered some of this tale of woe in late-night conversations, they are all staring at me: Isaiah, Noah, West, Chris, and Ryan.