Conner stopped, and it was the first time since we’d gotten out of bed that we looked each other squarely in the face.

He said, “So. You want to get coffee?”

“Oh man, I am dying for some coffee.”

Conner’s mouth turned downward. He shook his head.

I said, “Um. Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

Then he smiled cautiously and pointed me to the door of a coffee bar.

It made for a long stretch of silence, finishing two full cups of hot coffee without saying a word. But nothing else needed to be said. Sometimes Conner and I could sit together for hours and just know, exactly, what we were thinking.

We didn’t avoid each other’s stare, though, because Conner and I could never be embarrassed about anything around each other. In fact, sitting there, having coffee with him, I understood Conner better at that moment than I had in all the years we’d known each other.

He swallowed. I watched the knot in his throat bob down and up.

I reached across the table and bumped his hand with my knuckles.

“You know, you’ve saved my life about a hundred times.”

I watched Conner bite at the inside of his lip. He shifted in his seat.

I turned and looked at the traffic outside the window, and tried to change the subject. But every subject only ended up being about us, anyway.

“I really like it here. I mean, at St. Atticus. I can feel it.”

Conner tipped his empty cup, like he was trying to read a message in the drying foam.

“This is it, right?”

“This is good enough for me, Con.”

“I’m okay staying here if you are, Jack.”

He sounded nervous, choked up.

I knew he was talking about much more than just England and St. Atticus Grammar School for Boys. We both knew it.

“Well, I’m okay staying here, Con. And, well … thanks.”

“No prob.” Then he squinted and smiled. “But don’t ever try that shit again.”

“Try what? The before thing, or … um … you know, after?”

Conner turned red and tried to clear his throat, pretended to look at the cars passing by outside, too.

“Hey,” I said. “In case you’re wondering, I’m not bugged about it at all. I thought it was totally cool. Really nice. Really. Okay?”

He looked at me and nodded.

*   *   *

“Oh fucking hell!” When I saw the station sign through the window, I shook my head. “We need to get off, Con. We’re going the wrong fucking way.”

We were on the Tube, at Finchley Road, heading in the entirely opposite direction, on the totally wrong line to get to the train station at Charing Cross.

We weren’t paying attention to what was going on around us—outside our little universe—that morning, so in our daze we ended up boarding a wrong-way train at Baker Street. And we barely made it out of the car before the doors whooshed shut.

But after spending a few minutes decoding the colored lines on the Underground map, we switched tracks and headed south on the Jubilee Line, which unfortunately also took us out of our way.

I sighed, and slapped my head when we passed the Baker Street stop.

“Why the fuck didn’t we get off there? What the fuck is wrong with me? I am so messed up today.”

Conner sat beside me, our bags on the floor between our feet.

He laughed. It was a real laugh, and it sounded good.

Like home.

He pressed his foot against mine. “It’s not like we have a plane to catch or something.”

When the train slowed into the Bond Street station, I pulled a small folding map from my back pocket.

Like Henry’s compass.

“We can switch at Westminster or Waterloo,” I said. “Waterloo’s probably better. Then we won’t have to get off again till we’re at Charing Cross.”

I tucked the map away. “I’m sorry about getting us lost, Con.”

Conner leaned forward and turned so he was looking straight into my eyes. He tapped his hand on my knee.

“I’m having a good time. Don’t sweat it.” He grinned. “It’s kind of fun being together in a place where nobody cares about us, and nobody’s trying to kill us.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Welcome home, huh?”

“Yeah. Home.”

The train stopped.

The doors swished open.

We were at Green Park.

And this was it.

thirty-six

There is something about this particular place.

It is a magnet, and Jack cannot break free.

My head snaps around; Conner watches me. He senses something, too, and I am aware of a tightness that clamps down, invades the edges of my vision.

Like being in a vice.

Something is wrong.

Don’t black out, Jack.

Conner’s hand is on my back, between my shoulders, and he says, “Are you feeling all right?”

This is the arrow.

There are so many people waiting to board the train.

They begin pressing into the car, packing everywhere. Suddenly it is as though their collective mouths inhale every molecule of air around me. Suffocating, empty, I shake my head and hang my chin down to my chest.

“I don’t know. I feel sick, Con. Like I’m going to pass out.”

“Jack?”

He’s rubbing my back, like he’s trying to keep me awake, and I say, “Shhhhh…”

Everything is suddenly so noisy. I am trapped inside the howling engine of a jet.

Whiteness paints my drained skin; I feel the opening of each pore and I begin to bleed small tears of freezing sweat. I am shaking, and Conner has his arm around my shoulder.

“Let’s get off for a second, Jack. Catch your breath.”

Conner begins to lift me up, but it is too crowded and too late. The doors are closed. The air turns to chalk dust, and I drop back into my seat as the train sluggishly lurches, skips, accelerates.

Of course.

This is why we got onto the wrong train.

The train passes into a tunnel. Outside in the velvet black, a white light smears by; it burns a trail like a glowing worm across my eyes. And as it wriggles, I stare blankly at the glass, waiting for it to become real and swallow me.

I take a deep breath.

Breathe, Jack.

I know Conner is here, he’s pressing his mouth up to my ear, saying something. I can feel the steam of the words that evaporate against my skin, but I can’t tell what he’s saying.

I feel along the seat beside me, find his hand, and grab on.

Tight.

I lean into him. “Conner, no matter what happens, I love you.”

I feel him squeezing my hand.

“Jack?”

“Hey,” he says, trying to shake me back. “Jack? Do you know that kid? What’s he want?”

Someone is saying, “I have a score to settle with you.”

The train begins to slow, it leans me forward, and I nearly fall into Conner.

Conner says again, “Do you know him?”

I shut my eyes tightly, reopen them.

Everything is everywhere.

Seated across the aisle on the bench directly facing us is a redhead kid.

The punk.

Quinn Cahill.

Slower.

Slower.

The kid is saying something.

“Billy? Billy? Isn’t that you, Billy? Don’t play games now. Hell … I knew I’d find you somewhere, as long as I only kept looking.”

My words are slurred, drunk, and they disconnect, set loose from my mouth like crazy rabbits. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, kid.”

The train stops.

Westminster.

Whoosh.

The doors.

The kid looks like he’s been stung.

“Billy!”

I’m holding Conner’s hand. I jerk it and lean forward, grab my bag.

I whisper, “Please get me out of here, Con.”

I fall out of the train as the doors hiss shut behind us; end up flat on my face in a forest of legs on the crowded Westminster platform.

*   *   *

“He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s just sick and couldn’t breathe for a second.”

Conner waved back the people standing around me, fanning the air above my face with his hand.

Someone said, “Do you need medical assistance?”