He seems to struggle with what to do, before dropping his hand to his side, but he doesn't put it back in his pocket. Instead, his fingers rotate the bundle over and over.

"You sure?"

"Positive." There's nothing else to say. Well, at least nothing here, now, next to the car. "Well, I guess I should go."

"If, uh, you . . ." He stops and starts again. More determined this time. "If you want to talk, or if you ever need anything . . . you have our numbers and e-mails. Just . . . drop us a line now and then. Let us know how you are. It'd be nice, to have someone who understands, when it's hard."

I nod, because I don't think I can talk. I open the door and look back to say good-bye again. Curtis's right there. He grabs my shoulder and then tugs me into a hug. It's weird, and awkward, and I tense with the shock of it, but then I'm hugging him back and it's OK.

"Go," he says, pushing me away. "Before we both make idiots of ourselves. Text or e-mail me, to let me know you got home OK."

I get into the car and fasten the seat belt and put it in gear. I pause to look out at him. It feels like I've been here for months, like it's been weeks, not two days, since I met him. I can hardly believe the guy who tried to hit him was me.

He smiles and waves again. But before I can pull out, he stops me with a hand on the door frame.

"Just in case," he says, tossing the wad of cash through the open window and onto the far side of the passenger seat. "Don't be stubborn. Now, go."

He takes off at a loping run back toward the house. I turn the car toward home. At least, I think I do. It may take me a while to find my way out of this crazy-ass town and get turned toward home.

Home.

CROSSING BACK INTO PENNSYLVANIA FROM OHIO, PANIC starts to set in.

For most of the night, I was flying along I-80 in the center lane, just me and the truckers. But around four a.m., the traffic picked up, and since then I've had to start paying attention again. Cars weave in and out, faster and slower, getting in my way and bugging me, making it harder to drive at a steady speed.

I stop for my third infusion of caffeine since midnight. If I cut myself right now, I'd probably bleed coffee.

The sky is starting to slide toward purple, pink, and gray as the sun rises. My whole body is tense and tight from the strain of driving for so many hours in a row, and each adjustment of speed or shifting lanes takes all my strength and focus.

But when I see the signs for McConnells Mill State Park, I have to detour. Takes about half an hour, and then I'm there, not too far in, but parked near an overlook, staring out over a gorge. Not too far from where we might have gone, if T.J. had come home.

Before the hike itself, but after the detour to talk, T.J. buzzed with energy, seemingly caught in the pure joy and fantasy of freedom. Grooving along, tapping out the wrong beat, and only singing some of the words to the songs on the radio. Pulling into Raccoon Creek State Park, he grinned like an idiot at the ranger manning the station.

But on our last night, in front of the fire, he got quiet. Poking at the flames with a stick, staring at nothing. So much of that trip was a blur, but that last night is burned into my skull, even though nothing really happened.

"You OK?" It was a stupid question. I even knew then it was a stupid question. But it was as close to what I really wanted to know as I could let myself get. When he focused on me, T.J.'s look was kind of confused, so I tried again. "You were just staring, but . . . are you OK, I mean, being up here?"

His mouth succeeded in making the shape of a smile, and at the time the tension in me eased just a little, but it wasn't a happy face. The pops of burning wood sounded loud while he tried to answer, starting and stopping a few times before actually getting anything out.

"Yeah, being up here is great. It's just . . ." He leaned back again, and I lost his face in the shadows. "I don't know, too quiet, I guess. Head gets heavy. You know?"

"Like a headache?"

He rolled onto his side and his face disappeared into the darkness. I was relieved when he rolled back into the firelight and I could see him again.

"No, like the quiet invites all the thoughts you usually drown out with noise, and they all start asking to be heard, and I don't know, your head just gets . . ."

"Heavy. Yeah, I get that." But I didn't. Not really. Not then.

"Even when it's quiet, over there, it's never this quiet. There's always something else to focus on, if the thoughts get too loud. Even the tick-tick of the truck, or the breathing of the guy next to you. Something to focus on to make all the inside stuff quiet down."

I made a big deal of clearing my throat, sitting up straighter, trying so hard to be more than his kid brother. And he did look at me - really look at me - for one long beat. But then his eyes and face changed, and his look became kind, like he was looking at a kid. Too kind. So kind it felt more like a slap. And then his face settled back into a flat mask.

He never told me what was in his head, being loud. And I didn't ask. Instead, I started talking about school, and Shauna, and Dad, and whatever came into my head. Nothing that was really important. Nothing that mattered. And I knew right away that he was somewhere else again, somewhere heavy. I didn't even bother to stop. I just rambled. Occasionally he would nod or make a sound, but he didn't even really hear what I was saying.

Maybe if I had waited. If I had stayed quiet. If I hadn't filled the space with bullshit, maybe he would have said it. Maybe he would have told me the truth.

Ultimately, a heaviness settled around both of us, like the words I was saying were trapped in the smoke from the fire, creating a haze. At the time, I worried that whatever he was hearing in his head was about the war. And up there, in the dark, I was scared. Scared to know what he had seen, what he had done. Maybe even a little scared of him. Even scared for me. I didn't want to know what I might have to do if I gave in to Dad. So I didn't ask the right questions, and he never told me what was clouding his eyes and making his head heavy.

He was probably thinking about Curtis, maybe even regretting that he was wasting five minutes of leave with me, instead of being in Madison with Curtis. But maybe he was trying to figure out if he could tell me, or if he should tell me, or how. Maybe he was already getting ready to leave for good, leave me behind, and didn't know how to tell me that. Whatever it was, I didn't ask because I figured, ultimately, whatever was in his head was about death.

It never occurred to me it could be about life.

DAD'S TRUCK ISN'T IN THE DRIVEWAY. I KNEW IT PROBABLY wouldn't be. He's never home in the middle of the day. But I still feel a weird mix of relief and disappointment at seeing the empty driveway.

Maybe I knew deep down this was a trial run, but I've been talking myself into the confrontation with Dad for the last hour, maybe even the last twenty-four hours. Now it seems like a waste of effort. Still, home, even with whatever's about to happen hanging over me, looks pretty good. I need to curl up for a week, or at least a weekend, in my cave of a bedroom, dark, and a little too warm, and mine. Not yet, I know, but that much closer. Soon.

I let myself in the side door, halfway between the kitchen and my room, and hold my breath. "Dad?" I wait for any signs of movement. "Da-ad?" Nothing. Nothing at all. I relax a little, but not all the way, not until I'm sure.

I stop dead one step into the kitchen and drop my duffel on the floor. The sight is incredible.

All over the kitchen table, in no apparent order, hundreds of pieces of paper, all different colors and sizes, with all these folds, so they don't lay flat. And envelopes, all these envelopes, one on the floor next to the table, with one of those red-white-and-blue return labels winking up at me. The empty box on the floor makes my stomach flip.

I can hardly understand, let alone believe, that Dad did this. I sidestep my way to the closet in the hallway, never taking my eyes off the table, littered with failed condolences. I open the hallway closet slowly, and see exactly what I expected to see: nothing. The empty box in the kitchen, the letters . . . Dad opened them. He opened them all.

I rest my forehead against the closet door. I turn my head and glance into the living room. My knees go weak. I can't move closer, and I can't back away.

Dad's TV is in pieces. It's on the floor, on its side. The screen isn't just broken: it has a hole in the middle of it, and the glass all around it is crackled and ragged, like he put his foot through it, or maybe a bat or something. The TV stand is in pieces, too. And whatever used to be on the hutch in the corner is now scattered debris next to and around it, and the hutch door is hanging by one hinge. All around the living room, stuff is broken and in pieces on the floor. There's a fist-size hole in the far wall.

I backpedal into the kitchen, like if I turn my back on the destruction, or take my eyes off the TV, something will attack me.

Once back in the kitchen, I'm confronted again by the letters. I don't know which came first or when: his decision to beat the TV down and generally smash everything of value in the living room, or the decision to open and read seven months' worth of condolence letters, mostly from strangers.

I can only hope he read the letters second - and recently, because they're all in one piece, and so is the kitchen.

"THANK GOD YOU'RE HERE."

Shauna catapults herself out of the house and at me before I can even close the car door. We stumble back into the side of the car with the full weight of her body thrown against mine. But when she steps back, her forehead is furrowed with worry. She shrinks in front of me, wrapping her arms around herself as if to hold her body together.

"Where have you been?"

"I had to go home first."

Her eyes narrow to slits. "And?"

"He wasn't home." I don't tell her about the state of the house.

A glimmer of softening in her eyes, but the moment and the glimmer fades fast. It's now or never.

"Shaun, I'm sorry." For everything. I need to tell her now, before anything else, that I am so fucking sorry for everything I've ever put her through, starting with ignoring her calls and working backward from there. "After the shit storm has settled, I'll make it up to you." I don't promise, not to her, but I'm determined. I will make it all up to her.

I wait. She doesn't move for a long time, but then her serious face appears. Means she has demands.

"I don't want you to go home."

"I know you don't." I brace for her outburst. "But I have to."

"No, you don't. I talked to Mom." Shit. I should have seen this coming. "She said you can totally stay here until you work things out with your dad." Shauna with a plan. "I already made up Stacy's old room, and -"

"Shauna -"

"You can't go back there!"

"I'll be fine."

"Yeah, like you've been fine your whole freaking life? Like all the times he's -?"

"Shauna, stop!" She jumps. I force my voice to be as soothing as I can. "Really, I appreciate it, all of it. But I have to face him. Today."

"And if he beats the shit out of you?"

"He won't." I promised myself I wouldn't lie to her anymore. "And if he does, he does. But I have to do this."

The anger melts away, leaving fear. "Please, for me, just stay here, at least tonight. Please?" Tears slide over her cheeks.

For the first time in a very long time, I know exactly what to do for her. I pull her into my arms and hold her as tight as I can. She turns her face against my shoulder and lets go, crying so hard her body shakes against mine. I just hold her, waiting for the waves of tears to pass. She soaks my shirt. I try not to think about how good it feels to hold her, even with the tears.

Her hair smells so good. Like Shauna, her familiar smell, and so, so good. I press a soft kiss to the top of her head and rest my face against her hair, breathing her in.

When her tears stop, I can hear the questions swirling around her brain. I run my hands over her back, feeling her shiver until I hug her tighter to keep her still. I need to do this now, before all the shit gets in the way again.

Her hands on my back soothe away the last of my doubts. I just start talking.

I tell her about Will, and Missy, and Zoe.

I tell her about Curtis. I have to close my eyes so I can keep going when her eyes go wide and wet. I tell her about the T.J. who lived there - about the pictures on the table - in that black-and-white apartment. About the pictures in my bag, of the family I never knew. About the letters in my bag, waiting to be read.

And before I can lose my nerve, I tell her everything else. I edit out Harley with a quick, decisive cut. But I hold nothing else back.

I tell her about the stalking, and how much of a stupid idiot I was when I met Celia in the library. How I floated around all afternoon, so proud of myself, like a moron. I tell her about Will's coming home, and about cursing out Celia, and trying to hit Curtis. I tell her about thinking about leaving, and Curtis's bringing my bag back, with everything inside.

I describe every screwup, every look, every stupid thing I did. It just pours out of me until I run dry.

I try to tell her about that last night with T.J., when I did everything wrong, but the strangling ache in my throat cuts me off.

She starts shushing and trying to talk over me, but I can't let her until I say what she really needs to hear.

"God, Shauna . . . I'm such a fuckup."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah, I am." I've fucked everything up. Everything. And no matter what I do, it's just gonna get more fucked up. "I can't . . ." The air catches in my chest.

"Shh." Soft breath against my skin. Her hand curls into my shirt over my heart, anchoring her to me. "You'll work it out. I'll help you."

"I've been an asshole, and I know I screwed up, and I have no idea what I'm gonna do, and you're -"

"It's going to get better. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but eventually, it'll be better. And I'll be here, but you've got to deal with it - with . . . T.J."

I flinch.

"He's gone. And I know it sucks. But you can't keep trying to pretend that everything's OK. That's fucked up." She smiles. "And not that Pinscher didn't have it coming . . ." She bobs and weaves until I feel my mouth turning up. "But if you keep trying to pretend that everything's OK, you're gonna explode again."

"Or turn into my dad." Fuck. I can feel the panic coming. I try to pull away, but she won't let go, so I hide my face in her hair.

She pulls back and tugs at my shoulders until I meet her eyes.

"You're not him." She leans up closer. "You are nothing like him."

I want to believe her.

"Nothing," she whispers.

I shiver. My fingers won't stop rubbing at the worn-soft denim of her jeans. My palms mold over the curves of her hips, fingers pressing in.

A slow smile lights up her face. She shifts up on her toes. "Trust me," she says, her lips moving against my chin. Her breath flutters over my lips. I gulp it in, my gut lurching with the breath. "Kiss me?"

It takes only a little tug at her arm to pull her close. I bend my neck to press my mouth to hers. Harder. She makes this sound, like humming in her throat, and opens her mouth. And then I don't know who is kissing who. But she tastes kind of sweet - not grape, more like honey. The spark of contact sends an electric current straight through me. My hands clutch at her hips. I'm kissing too hard. Teeth. Her fingers on my jaw, guiding my mouth. I let her lead. Quick kisses, moving like a dance. Then there's a rhythm, a give and pull to it, and her fingers slide into my hair. When she breaks the kiss to breathe, she blushes to the curls around her face.

"Wow," she whispers.

I can't form words, too focused on breathing and dealing with the hot, heavy ache.

A car door slams. We jump apart.

I frantically look around, bracing already for my or Shauna's dad. But after several gasping breaths, it's clear no one is here. My pounding pulse is slowing, nothing like the pulsing pleasure-heat-pressure of before.

Her laughter floats around me, soft, gentle, warm like her hands. Her fingers roughly rub at her overheated face. I tug at my jeans. A mischievous smile forces her cheeks to curl up toward her eyes.

My stomach growls loudly. I can't remember the last time I ate. And it's getting late. "Listen, I really think it'll be OK at home, but just in case, can I hang on to the car for one more night?"

"Sure." She steps a little closer and her fingers reach out, as if to take my hand, but she just touches a bit of my shirt instead. "You'll bring it by tomorrow?"

"I have to work, so it would have to be before or after."

"After's fine," she says, before taking another halting step closer and sort of leaning toward me. "Mom and Dad have to go visit my aunt. They'll stay in Jersey for the night. So come by anytime after work. We could hang out." Her eyes flicker up to mine. "Or something. Maybe order in some Chinese for dinner?" Her face is red. She's studying something on my shirt now, her fingers still worrying the edge of it.

"Sure," I say, but the word gets mangled, what with the lack of air and all the blood diverted from my head. "Sounds good."