“Sure. Who’s Damian Whittaker?”

I fish the photo of the three amigos out of my backpack. “This one.” I point to Damian.

“Oh, Gray Hoodie,” she says. “I know him.”

We check the library. The gym. We start walking down the halls, poking our head into random classrooms, hoping to find him. Somewhere along the way we pick up Beaker, then Steven, who checks the guys’ bathrooms and locker room.

No Damian.

Back in the commons, El hacks the school’s computer system to check the attendance record. “He’s marked absent today. No explanation as to why. It’s an unexcused absence,” she says from behind her laptop. “Which means his parents didn’t call him in sick.”

That’s when the terrible thought occurs to me.

I grab El’s laptop and turn it toward me. I check a few of Damian’s social media websites before I stumble across a new poem on one of them:

She makes the stars go out.

She makes the rain.

I give her my heart

as a rose made of paper

but she lets it fall

on the dirty floor.

She gives me a cup

full of pity and pain

to drown myself in.

And this is when the terrible thought becomes even more terrible.

“What does that even mean?” El asks from over my shoulder, reading the screen.

The poem was posted an hour ago. I try to ignore the panicked clenching in my stomach and take out my phone to call Damian’s cell. I get his voice mail again.

“Hi, you’ve reached Damian. You know what to do,” he says.

I hang up. I don’t think he’d want to hear my voice right now. But I have to see if he’s home.

“Get me his home number,” I say to El. “The landline.”

She finesses the school’s records system again, and produces a number.

It rings and rings and rings. No answer. No machine.

“Lex, who is this guy?” Steven asks.

“Gray Hoodie,” El fills in helpfully.

I jump up. “I have to go. What’s his address?”

She clicks some keys. “2585 West Mill Road.”

I’m already running for the school’s front door. For the parking lot. For my car.

El, Beaker, and Steven fall in behind me.

“2585 West Mill Road,” I repeat to myself. “That’s not far, right?”

“It’s about ten minutes, I think,” Steven calculates.

But the Lemon doesn’t start.

I turn to my friends, panting a little. “Tell me one of you drove.”

El doesn’t have a car, and Beaker looks guilty. “No,” she says. “I got a ride with Antonio.”

I turn to Steven. He shakes his head. “Sarah has the car today.”

I try the Lemon again, but it’s no use.

Why? I think. Why will the universe not give me a freaking break?

“Lex,” Steven starts nervously. “What’s going on? Do you think that Damian is . . . Why do you think that Damian’s going to—”

I shake my head. “Be quiet for a second, okay? I need to think.”

So I think as hard as I’ve ever thought. I strain every neuron. And I see the answer.

I dial and lift the phone to my ear.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on. Be awake.”

“Hello?” says a sleepy voice. “What’s up?”

“Seth,” I breathe in relief. “This is Lex. I need a favor.”

“Sure, Lex,” he says. “Your wish is my command, yo.”

“Thanks.” I meet Steven’s eyes. “Seth, I’m going to need that ride.”

35.

TWELVE MINUTES LATER I’M FLYING UP North 27th Street headed out of town, my teeth chattering, my hair tucked into Seth’s helmet, holding Seth tight around the ribs.

It’s warmer out now, but still chilly. Over our heads white cirrostratus clouds are stretched in rows across the sky, cut by the sharp trail of a plane descending into the Lincoln airport.

“Are you all right back there?” Seth yells.

“Can we go any faster?” I yell back.

We’re going so fast already, but Seth pushes the engine harder, making the telephone poles start whipping by us at an increased rate.

I’m so cold I can’t feel my face.

We turn on West Mill Road and head out into the deep farm country, cornfields and more cornfields. The snow has melted, leaving the muddy brown fields stubbled with the dead cornstalks from last year. The farmers will plow it all under soon and plant again. The air smells like cow manure and fresh water and growing things.

It smells like spring.

I hope we’re not too late.

Seth asks for the number again, and I yell, “2585,” and he slows way down and yells, “I think this is it up here.”

We pull off onto a long driveway and drive up to a gray two-story house.

I recognize Damian’s car parked out front. “Yes, this is it.”

Seth takes us right up to the front step. I clutch at him as he leans to put his foot down.

“You’ll have to get off first,” he says. “Just swing your leg around.”

I dismount in the most awkward way possible and take off the helmet. I hand it back to Seth. We both step back to get a look at the house.

“Whoa,” Seth says. “Gothic. I bet this place is haunted.”

Ramshackle is the word I would use. It’s your basic two-story farmhouse with the windows that look like eyes and the door like a mouth. It needs a new paint job and maybe a new roof, and it does look like something out of an old black-and-white horror movie, but it has good bones, as Beaker would say.