The next morning, the Diaz family gets up at 6:00 AM on a Saturday so Sean and Daniel can get on the road.

Dad, still in a pair of pajama pants and slippers, hugs Sean then Daniel tightly around their necks. Then he forces them to get a picture together, joking that he'll have something for the MISSING posters if something goes wrong. Then he bombards them with questions. Does Sean have his AAA card? Does he have enough money? Would he like more money, just in case? Where are they staying tonight? Daniel, do you have your phone charger? Did you remember your toothbrush? After all of that and loading the groceries Dad bought, it feels like it takes forever for Sean to get out of Seattle with his brother.

But then they are finally on the road.

Yesterday was a long day of travel after a long couple of weeks after a long five years, but Sean doesn't feel tired. He's been imagining this trip since the drive back from talking to Max in Augusta. It was a journey to the border that brought him and Daniel close together, so maybe another trip—one with less blood, cults, and openly-racist assholes—will be what they need to fix their relationship.

And, though he's had doubts, he's finally decided that it doesn't matter what Max said, about how he might be risking everything. It's a week on the road with his little brother. There's no way this won't be awesome.

"So, enano," Sean says as the city disappears in the rearview mirror, "you got anything you want to see?"

But Daniel doesn't answer.

He already has his earbuds in, his eyes closed, drifting off to sleep.

# # #

It's cool, Sean tells himself as Daniel snoozes in the passenger's seat. He's a kid. He got up early. I'm the adult. It's fine.

Sean fumbles with his phone, pulls up a playlist he found in his Spotify of Frank Turner songs. He isn't sure why the Sean in this life connected to them—maybe he was just kind of emo. But the songs sound like they were written by a broken person who is trying to be better, and they have really spoken to Sean these past few months.

As the guitars and vocals play through the speakers, Sean realizes one good thing about Daniel sleeping—he won't get asked why they are going this route to Beaver Creek. Not only is it slower, it's very much out of the way.

Because it's the way Sean and his brother walked when Dad died. Before Sean decided they were going to Puerto Lobos, when they just needed to get away.

Sean made the decision to retrace this path without really making the decision. He didn't think about it. It just seemed like a thing to do, since he's trying to recreate their journey.

It didn't seem like a big deal, but as they drive over a bridge that they slept under on their first night, he feels the same cold that crept into his skin as he used his body to shelter Daniel from the wind.

As they drive past the national park where Daniel made a fort to protect them from Creepers and they decided that they were wolves as they slept under a rocky outcropping, Sean can feel the hard ground that was beneath the blanket, hear his brother whimpering in his sleep.

All of this took days of walking—Sean can feel the ache in his legs, the blisters on his feet—but in a car, they pass it in a little over an hour.

They pass a restaurant where Sean, against his judgment, splurged on food, and he can taste the richness of the milkshake and feel it bloating his days-empty stomach.

And then he sees a gas station. No, not just any gas station—the gas station.

They were hungry and begged for food. They even dug through the trash. But the nice lady inside was kind, and they didn't steal, but that asshole, that fucking asshole, accused them of stealing anyway and he tied Sean up and . . .

Sean can feel the plastic zip-tie cutting into his wrists, his fingers growing cold from lack of circulation.

He feels the impact of the man's boot crashing against his cheekbone.

And he feels the sting of the man's words calling him a "thug" and accusing him of not being a citizen.

He was a kid. He hadn't hurt anybody. How could that fucker just beat up, tie up a kid . . . like a child could be fucking dangerous?

Sean remembers the dark. And the pain. And, oh god, that feeling of utter helplessness and—

There's a tightness in Sean's chest.

And a thin layer of sweat on his body, like his skin is too hot, but the rest of him is too cold.

His heart flutters.

He feels like he's going to throw up, but there's nothing coming up his stomach.

Holy shit, he thinks. Am I having a panic attack?

He should stop the car. He knows he should stop the car. This isn't safe, driving as his body shuts-the-fuck-down. But he can't stop here, not here, the man could get him that asshole could come get him he could get tied up and—

That's stupid. He knows it's stupid. Sean was on the news, and they're already past the gas station—that man isn't going to come for him. Sean faced worse things later in their journey; he faced worse things every day in prison. But that asshole, that fucking Hank Stamper, was the first really scary thing that happened to him.

Hank Stamper was the first person who told him that he wasn't a kid anymore.

So he can't stop here.

So what else can he do but keep driving?

# # #

Sean drives in a daze. For how long, he isn't sure, hands numbing from the tightness that he grips the wheel, arms rigid like wooden boards. And the whole time, his brother asleep, unaware beside him. When he finally pulls over, he stumbles out of the car, strips off his hoodie, and his t-shirt underneath is drenched with sweat. A cool breeze cuts through it, and he shivers but still feels hot.

They're at a small, road-side stop, a lookout point set over a small, bay-side town at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The clouds over the water are a dull gray, and Sean leans on a thick, metal guardrail, and sets his head on it. It's cold. The air smells like pine. And he feels sick.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What's wrong with me? he wonders. How can he be freaking out this much just from driving past some shit? Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But none of that bad stuff happened. It can't hurt me. None of it can hurt me.

Except all that bad stuff is still there. And it is hurting him.

There's a breathing exercise he knows. Draw in a breath for a count of four. Hold it for a count of seven. Let it out for a count of eight. Repeat. He does this a few times, and his heart still feels like it's beating out of sync when he hears:

"Dude, Sean, are you okay?"

Sean raises his head, and Daniel stands there, earbuds hanging out the collar of his shirt, his eyebrows knitted in worry. Sean didn't even hear the car door. "I'm fine, bro. I just . . . needed some air."

It tickles as Daniel runs a fingertip over the lonely boy tattoo on Sean's forearm; Daniel grimaces then wipes his hand on his pants. "You are really damp for someone who is 'fine.' Where are we?"

The town below looks familiar. There's a lighthouse on the hill and a sense that Sean has been here before. A placard in front of him says: Arcadia Bay.

"Arcadia Bay?" Daniel says. "Dude, do you remember the last time we were here?"

"What?" Sean says. Daniel shouldn't remember the last time they were here because it was after Brody picked them up. They stopped in this very spot. Sean had a heart to heart with Brody while Daniel slept in the car with their new dog Mushroom. God, Mushroom. Sean had forgotten about Mushroom. All of that was another world, one that shouldn't exist anymore.

"Yeah," Daniel says, "Dad took us down here for a weekend, but we spent most of it in the hospital because we found out you're allergic to shellfish."

"Ha, yeah," Sean says, leaning on the rail, not feeling relieved. "That was a pretty shitty trip. This one is going to be better."

"Really, though," Daniel says, "you look . . . bad. You can tell me if something is wrong. I'll listen or whatever if you need to talk."

Sean shakes his head. Despite what Dad said, that's not how it works. Sure, there were times when Sean had to rely on Daniel and his powers to get them out of a spot. But the big stuff—the heavy stuff, the emotional stuff, the responsibility stuff—that was all on Sean. He's the big brother. He shoulders things for Daniel. It doesn't work the other way of around.

But . . . down below is Arcadia Bay, the town the universe tried to destroy because Max saved her friend Chloe. Sean can't really make out any people from here, but he knows they are there. Someone has to be driving those cars back and forth. He tries to imagine all of this gone, a crater of debris. He tries to wrap his head around letting so many lives get destroyed to save one person.

How can you sacrifice everyone you love, your home, for one person?

Somewhere, far off the coast, a single bolt of lightning streaks down to the water.

"Dan, do you know about the Trolley Problem?" Sean asks.

"Yeah! The Good Place did a whole episode about it," Daniel says.

"What's The Good Place?"

"'What's The Good Place'? Dude, it's a show about a bunch of people in the afterlife that I can't really say more about without major spoilers—how have you not seen this? It's mostly about philosophy and shit and is totally the type of weird show you'd be into."

Yeah, well, I didn't get to watch much TV that wasn't sports in prison, Sean thinks. "Anyway, let's say that you're on a trolley, and you can switch between two sets of tracks. On one of them is Dad, and if the trolley stays on the track, it will kill him. Dad will be dead. What do you do?"

"Well, what's on the other track?"

"Nothing, as far as you know."

"Then obviously I switch tracks and save Dad," Daniel says. "Are you sure you know what the Trolley Problem is? Because these are supposed to be much harder."

"Okay," Sean says. "Let's say that because you switched tracks you, like, miss your stop. So you miss an important event you had planned with your best friend, and now your best friend isn't really your best friend anymore. You miss him . . . like, a lot. More than you thought possible. Do you still think saving Dad is worth it?"

Daniel hangs his head. His hair is a little shaggy, and it falls over his eyes. He kicks at the gravel with the toe of his beaten-up Chuck Taylors. It takes him a long time to answer. "I still save Dad. He's Dad."

"Now, let's say you have the chance to ask your former best friend to get on the trolley with you. If he does, there's a really good chance you guys can become friends again. But the thing is—you don't know what's ahead. It could be a smooth ride. It could be a good time. But you've heard rumors the track is unfinished. The trolley might be heading to a big pit with the two of you on it. It could, I dunno, get struck by lightning." The thunder from the lightning bolt finally rumbles over them. "You miss him, but you may end up hurting him if you try to be friends again. What do you do?"

"I don't fucking know, Sean!" Daniel snaps. "If you want to fucking talk to me about something, you should just fucking do it. Don't bullshit, okay? It's condescending and makes you a dick."

"What?" Sean blinks. He has no idea where this is coming from. "Dude, why are you freaking out at me?"

"Just . . . fuck you, man," Daniel says. Even as Sean calls his name, begs him to stop, his little brother doesn't turn around. He just stomps back towards the car, leaving Sean confused about how this chasm keeps showing up between them.