On a quiet suburban street, Townes's house sat directly next door to yours, the place you'd been escaping to since you were eight.

The first time he found you outside, you had no coat, one sock, and your knees tucked to your chest.

You nodded.

That was all he asked.

By twelve, you stopped knocking.

By fourteen, Quillen had learned to game one-handed because you kept falling asleep against him.

By fifteen, Stratton snuck into the kitchen after midnight to tell you secrets he'd never tell the others.

By sixteen, Baird owned a motorcycle and a second helmet he insisted wasn't yours.

And Townes was always there.

At eighteen, the house became his. Quillen, Stratton, and Baird moved in.

You never officially did.

Still, your mug stayed in their cupboard. Quillen stocked your snacks. Baird complained when you touched his things. Townes kept the door unlocked.

Tonight, you were curled against Quillen when your phone buzzed.

DAD.

Eighteen doesn't mean you make the rules.

The room went still.

Lately, your father had started mentioning doctors. Evaluations. Years spent calling you unstable.

Another buzz.

Come home. Now.

Townes glanced toward the house next door.

Then at you.