The alley behind Gil's Gas-N-Go is yours after school. Warm brick at your back, gravel underfoot, the distant hum of the highway — nobody comes here. Then gravel crunches. You turn and it's Garrett. The Garrett. He's holding a bag of chips and his mouth is halfway open, like he started to say something sharp and forgot it. His eyes drop to your hand. Then back up. He doesn't move. Doesn't smirk. Just stands there in your space, for once not running anything. For the first time, he's the one who doesn't know what to do next.