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ear. And like I said, he’s a really good kisser. He delivers these tiny, goosebumps-inducing kisses and nibbles all over that make my hair follicles go electric.
    He doesn’t look like the type of guy that could kiss like this, but he is.
    It’s nice being high and kissing Jason McGinty. And that’s all I’m trying to think about when he takes my hand and pulls me down to the ground underneath the trees and the moon and the dark Texas sky. That’s all I’m trying to think about as I stretch out on my back and give in.

 
    ETHAN—132 DAYS AFTERWARD
    Today I woke up and headed downstairs to find my parents waiting for me in the kitchen with a pancake breakfast. My mom made a smiley face on the pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream, and there’s a bowl of fresh fruit and a big glass of orange juice to go along with everything.
    â€œHappy birthday, Ethan!” they shout. My mom has her hands clasped together under her chin, and my dad is standing there with his hands on his hips, nodding. They look so eager. So happy.
    â€œHey, thanks,” I say, trying on a smile. I’m not hungry, but I sit down at the breakfast table anyway and start taking a few bites of the pancakes.
    â€œI remember how much you liked these,” my mom says, reaching out to pet my arm. I tense up and close my eyes briefly until she stops.
    â€œThis is really nice,” I say. I feel like they’re watching me eat, so I try to chew with some enthusiasm. But I’m pretty tired. I slept really bad last night, waking up every hour with my heart racing and feeling sick to my stomach, too.
    It’s October fourth. My birthday. I’m sixteen. And I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I turned eleven. I shove another mouthful of pancakes down my throat and remember that day. How Jesse and Eric and all the guys came over to play video games, and my mom made us tacos and Jesse told us about how he’d spied with his dad’s binoculars on his babysitter who lived next door to him and how he’d seen her with her top off and everything.
    I never told Marty when my birthday was, and he never asked. It was hard for me to know the days when I was there, and even now when I think back there are blanks—long stretches where I can’t remember anything. I can’t figure out if the not remembering makes me anxious or relieved or both. But I do know that just thinking about Marty makes my breathing tighten up.
    Don’t think about it, Ethan. Don’t think about him. He isn’t here. He isn’t even alive anymore.
    I run my thumbs over my knuckles a few times and then shove another mouthful of pancakes into my mouth and make myself chew. They taste like dirt and air and nothing. My parents are still watching me. My mom is still grinning so hard I think she might break her cheeks. Her eyes are tearing up, too.
    â€œBuddy, when you’re done there, we have something for you in the garage,” my dad tells me.
    â€œGreat,” I say, shoveling another bite in my mouth and wondering how much I have to eat before I can say I’ve had enough. This would at least be easier if they were eating, too. But ever since I’ve been back they just seem to like watching me do stuff. Even boring stuff like eating.
    Finally, after a few more bites I tell my parents I’m full, and they lead me out the back door to the detached garage at the end of our long driveway. We never park our cars in the garage. We just keep them in the driveway, so mostly the garage is a building full of my dad’s tools and random Tupperware crates full of Christmas decorations and other junk. When I first got back I saw a whole stack of posters with my eleven-year-old face on them and the word MISSING stamped across them in big red letters, but pretty soon after I got home they disappeared. I don’t know where they went.
    This morning my dad uses the clicker to open up the garage