I am going to explode.

I put on my shoes and leave the house half-dressed. I’m wearing shorts with a pajama top that hopefully passes for a T-shirt if no one looks closely at the cartoon sheep slumbering over the big bubble letters across the chest that say NIGHTY-NIGHT NIGHTIE.

I leave on my bike, pumping my legs hard because I’m angry and I don’t know how else to work it out. I check my watch. Milo is at Fuller’s right now, killing time until two, when his cousin Mark relieves him and then we can skulk around Branford with less purpose than anyone else in this dumb town.

I bike across two streets, cut through an alleyway and round the corner off the main street. Fuller’s comes into view. The place is busy. One truck, three cars, a self-serve parade. The closer I get to it, the sounds, the smells, everything feels like too much. Instead of slowing down and pushing the handbrakes or even dragging my feet, I speed up, pumping my legs harder, until I can feel it in my heart. I just keep moving—

Until the back of the truck stops me.

I guess I’m not going as fast as I think I am. Maybe it only felt like my legs were matching pace with my pulse. Still, when I hit the truck, it makes this awful sound. My stomach ricochets off my spine and instead of going over the handlebars and into the truck bed, I sort of flop right over. I land on my side and my bike collapses on top of me. I close my eyes.

I don’t feel so much like exploding anymore.

I mean, I think I could sleep here.

“What the fuck did you do to my fucking truck?!”

I open my eyes. The guy the truck belongs to stands over me. He’s wearing an unbuttoned plaid shirt over one of those greasy, off-white undershirts and his arms are hairy and the knees of his jeans are so worn out it’s amazing they’re still attached. Roy Ackman. Farmer. Everyone knows Roy.

He came to the funeral.

He is giving me the weirdest look right now.

“Eddie Reeves?” he asks, totally bewildered. I’m the last person on earth he’s expecting. Before I can say anything, the jingling of the bells over the front door to the store sound. Open. Close. Milo. I hear him before I see him.

“Jesus, Eddie!”

Roy lifts my bike off me. “You got a problem with my truck?”

“Why didn’t you stop?” Milo demands, looming over me.

“Uhm…” I lick my lips. Milo extends his hand and I fumble to get my fingers around his. I can’t figure out how to work them because when I say they’re dying, I mean it. I can’t hold on. It takes forever, but I finally get a grip and Milo pulls me to my feet. As soon as I’m upright, his hand is on the small of my back, like he’s keeping me steady.

“I spaced out,” I say. “I guess.”

Milo just stares at me, but Roy’s face softens like that, and I sort of hate that I’m going to get away with this for all the wrong reasons, but I think I have to let it happen because everyone in Branford knows how Roy Ackman feels about his truck.

“I’m really sorry, Roy,” I add. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, no,” he says gruffly, waving a hand. “It’s okay. I know…”

He looks me right in the eyes. I didn’t notice how blue Roy Ackman’s eyes were until this exact moment. He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels, and starts vomiting small-town condolences all over me.

“So, is your mom doing okay? We miss seeing her around town. If you ever want to come down, we’d love to have you for dinner. Corinne keeps meaning to call to let you know our door’s always open to you…”

I rub my arm. “Yeah … thanks.”

“Okay, then…” He keeps staring until he snaps to, remembering where he is and what he was doing before I decided to play chicken with his Chevy. He goes in his pocket for his wallet, pulls out a twenty, and hands it to Milo. “Twenty even. I’ll be on my way.”

Milo salutes him. “Have a good one, Roy.”

We watch Roy pull out and then I grab my bike and make my way to the store, resting it against the building before pushing through the door. The air-conditioning feels good.

Milo edges in behind me.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Beth served gluten-free pancakes and decaf for breakfast. And she’s moving in for like a month.” I lean against the freezer full of pop and energy drinks. “You seem busy.”

“Kind of.”

He goes to the counter and pours two coffees, no cream and no sugar—straight up. He doubles up on the cups so we don’t burn our hands because the Styrofoam gets hot and then he grabs two pepperoni sticks from the jar beside the cash register and hands me one and he never pays, but it doesn’t matter because his aunt owns the place and she doesn’t care. Milo is on all the surveillance tapes, eating up the food, but as long as she never has to work the register, it’s totally fine.

“Sorry about Beth,” he says, looking me up and down. His gaze lingers on my NIGHTY-NIGHT NIGHTIE. He doesn’t say anything, which is good. I yawn. “Tired?”

“I was up late.”

“Really? Because I called you last night and you didn’t pick up.”

“Sorry.” I take a sip of the coffee, which is stupid. It burns all the way down. “Beth woke me up as soon as I got to sleep. She says I need to get my cicada rhythms back on track.”

His mouth quirks. “You mean circadian rhythms?”

“What are you, Beth?”

A customer comes in, and then another and another. Milo stands alert behind the register and I just stay there, yawning, until he says, “Take the couch. I’ll wake you when my shift ends.”

I go to the backroom and flop down on the gross leather couch that has been here since time immemorial and that, despite its grossness, is actually really comfortable. I close my eyes and next thing, Milo is shaking me awake and the light coming in through the window has changed.

“Gus is here,” he says.

I rub my face and follow Milo back into the store, squinting, trying to wake myself up. As soon as Milo’s uncle sees me, he envelops me in this big bear hug and I can’t figure out why until I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him since the funeral too. Gus doesn’t usually follow one of Milo’s shifts. Mark must have cancelled.

“Holding up?” He keeps his voice low.

“Yep,” I say into his chest.

It takes him forever to let go, or maybe it just feels like it. I can’t wait to get out of his grasp, but as soon as I am, I sort of want to be hugged again.

Gus claps Milo on the shoulder.

“So what’s on the agenda for you two today? Trouble?”

“Of course,” Milo says.

Of course. We leave Fuller’s, making our way to the park so we can sit there and do nothing. Milo walks my bike for me, like he doesn’t trust that I won’t just pedal myself into the back of another truck. We don’t talk. It’s quiet between us lately. All the time. Sometimes I’m afraid my dad’s death has stolen whatever sparked between us back in the second grade.

We never used to be this kind of quiet.