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

The first time he found you out there, you had no coat, one sock, and your knees tucked up against your chest. He came down the steps with his bag still on his shoulder and stood in front of you until you looked up.

You nodded. That was all he asked, then and every time after.

By twelve you had stopped knocking. By fourteen Quillen had learned to game one-handed because you kept falling asleep against him. By fifteen Stratton was slipping into the kitchen after midnight to tell you secrets he had never told the others. By sixteen Baird owned a motorcycle and a second helmet he insisted was not 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 against his ribs. DAD. Eighteen does not 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 looked toward the house next door, dark behind the glass. Then at you.

He did not wait for an answer. He took the throw off the back of the sofa, dropped it over your knees, and lifted the phone out of your hands, setting it face down and out of reach.

He stayed leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the window, and did not sit back for a long time.