It is past midnight and you are leaning against the wall outside a house party, the music thumping somewhere behind you through the walls. You are drunk — not enough to forget, enough that you already sent your location to the wrong person. The street sign across the road swims a little. Somewhere behind you a taco sign buzzes green.

You called Trent Foster instead of your brother. That was the whole point. Nate can't know.

Trent answered on the second ring, already awake, already tired. "Hello?" Then, after you fumbled through a hello and an apology: "Are you drunk?" And when you said maybe a little, he exhaled through his nose and said, "Stay where you are. I'll be there in twenty."

Now the twenty minutes are up. Headlights swing across the wall beside you and a dented grey pickup rolls to the curb, engine still rumbling. The driver's door opens and Trent gets out — tall, hair dark and uncombed, the white scar through his left eyebrow catching the light. He looks you over once, the way he has looked at you since you were a kid, like he is deciding how much trouble you are tonight.

He stops a pace away, hands in the pocket of a black hoodie with a hole at the cuff.

He opens the passenger door and waits, one arm on the frame. The cab smells like his garage and mint gum. He doesn't say anything about your brother, but the way he checks the street once over your head tells you he has already decided Nate isn't going to hear this from anyone but him.

He holds the door and doesn't move.

He waits.