Chapter 8

Ryan spent Wednesday staying as far away from Rivera as he could. It wasn't easy. Ryan and Silva sat together in class and ate dinner at the same table, and Ryan quickly realized that something was going on between Silva and Rivera, something that he didn't quite understand. They seemed to be engaged in a battle of wills. Rivera had enemies in juvie, but he had friends too, and his friends were making life miserable for Silva. He kept getting sucker-punched, in the kidneys or the back of the head, whenever the guards weren't looking. The assailants were so quick that sometimes Ryan didn't see the punches, only Silva's reaction to them, which was no more than a flicker of expression across his face. Silva didn't flinch, even when they took him by surprise. The less he reacted, the more abuse he took. It went on all day. They tripped him during exercise. They stole his sandwich and his apple at dinner. In the showers, they stared. The guards watched them all pretty closely in the showers—otherwise, bad things happened—but staring was bad enough. It was a clear threat, and Ryan knew that Silva noticed, even if he didn't talk about it. Silva still wouldn't talk about anything.

That night Ryan curled up on his mattress, cramming the flattened pillow under his head. He had been trying to fall asleep for almost an hour without luck. It was hard to relax when he was trapped in a grimy 8-by-10 box with a sociopath. Besides, he was freezing. His hair was still damp from the shower and his feet were icy. He wanted to bury them in the blanket, but it was too small. The cold of the cement floor soaked through the thin mattress pad and settled into his bones. He thought of his bed in the pool house, where he could sprawl out on his back in all directions with room to spare. There were always extra blankets stacked in the closet, and water to drink whenever he wanted, and a bathroom he could use without asking first. In the past few days Ryan had had to stop himself from dwelling on thoughts of the Cohens' house. It just made him bitter and depressed. He started craving coffee and solitude and fresh air. But tonight the thoughts were strangely soothing, and Ryan closed his eyes, imagining he was back in the pool house, warm and well-fed and safe. He was just starting to drift off when he heard creaking sounds above him. Rivera was shifting around in his bunk. Ryan lay perfectly still, but Silva shot to a sitting position and got his feet on the floor at the same time Rivera slid off the end of his bunk. It was as though they had planned it, and maybe they had. Ryan sat up and watched them carefully, ready to move if he needed to. Rivera leaned his elbow on the top bunk and looked at Silva with a little smile. Silva turned and looked down at Ryan.

"Move," he said, and when Ryan didn't respond immediately he leaned forward and repeated it, more urgently. "Move."

Their eyes met, and Silva's were exhausted more than anything, the eyes of someone who'd lived life a hundred times over and was constantly disappointed that it never got easier. Ryan nodded and got to his feet, backing against the far wall. Silva stood in the middle of the room, his back to Ryan. He faced Rivera, who sauntered toward him, his movements studied and casual. He outweighed Silva by a good 50 pounds, Ryan figured.

Rivera said to Silva, "You protecting him again? Your little bitch?"

Silva just made a noise low in his throat, a cross between a growl and a sigh. He lowered his head and clenched his fists and before Ryan could process what was happening, Silva had lunged at Rivera's stomach, slipping a little on Ryan's mattress but knocking Rivera to the floor anyway. He brought his fist down on Rivera's mouth and again on his cheek before Rivera caught his wrists and flipped them so he was on top. He delivered one blow to Silva's face and then just pinned him and fumbled at the front pocket of his jumpsuit. Ryan knew then what was going to happen, and moved forward even before Rivera reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic kitchen knife, honed to a sharp and shining point.

"Don't get too close," Rivera said, "or I'll cut you, too."

"Don't do this," Ryan said, hating the pleading note that had crept into his voice. If there was one thing you didn't do with guys like Rivera, it was plead. They liked it too much. They fed off it. Ryan wanted to jump in and help Silva, but he might get stabbed. They might both get stabbed.

Rivera smiled. "You think, what? I'm gonna kill him?"

Silva struggled under Rivera, but Rivera kept him pinned easily with one hand, and lightly traced the plastic blade down his face.

"It's okay, Atwood," Rivera said. "I'm just gonna cut him. Just a little. He'll still be pretty for you. You just stand back or he gets it worse."

Ryan stood still, clenching his hands at his sides, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe silently. Together he and Silva could probably take Rivera, but he had another hearing coming up—if they caught him fighting inside he'd be done. If he called for help he'd be done, too, eaten alive by Rivera's friends. He might not be able to save Silva. He might not be able to save himself. There was no course of action he wouldn't regret.

Ryan took a step closer and Rivera lashed out. The knife caught and snagged on Ryan's jumpsuit, missing his skin but tearing a small hole in the cloth over his thigh. His stomach jumped and his heart pounded and Sandy's face flashed in front of his eyes. He remembered his promise and his body made the decision for him. He jumped past Rivera and Silva and pounded on the door, shouting for the guards, keeping himself safe.

Ryan lay on his bunk in the isolation unit, staring up at the ceiling. It was Thursday morning, he was pretty sure of that, but he hadn't slept at all. When the guards had burst in to break up the fight, he hadn't moved back fast enough to suit them, and he'd gotten a face full of pepper spray. So he'd been doubled over in a coughing fit, his eyes streaming, when the guards wrestled Rivera to the ground and took both of the other guys away in handcuffs. He looked up as they were pulled from the room and saw through the tears in his eyes that they were both glaring at him. He couldn't blame either of them. Probably nothing would happen, but Rivera could get another assault charge added to his record, and Silva was one step closer to being deported. Ryan knew that Rivera's friends would come after him, that they wouldn't stop until they paid him back for ratting Rivera out. If Silva had any friends, they would do the same for him. Ryan didn't have any friends.

One of the guards had returned a few minutes after taking the other guys away to ask Ryan some questions, what he'd seen and heard and who had done what. Ryan sat on the edge of Silva's bunk and answered the questions honestly. He didn't know what the fight was about. No, he hadn't known about the knife. He had no idea how Rivera had smuggled it into the cell and kept it there, considering how often the wards and the rooms got searched. He stood against the wall while the guard tore the room apart looking for more weapons, without success. Ryan's throat burned in a hundred tiny places from the pepper spray and his eyes watered continuously. He was still shaking from the whole encounter, and it wasn't until the guard was poised to leave the room that he got up the courage to request placement in isolation.

"Are you sure you want that, Atwood?" the guard said. "It's a lockdown unit, you know. You're not going to get special privileges just because you asked for it."

"I know," Ryan said. He tried to take a breath and ended up coughing instead. When he could speak again he said, "I'm sure."

The guard had shrugged and nodded, and within an hour Ryan was installed in the room that the wards had dubbed the Suicide Room. Ryan had heard that the residents of the room usually had to go without sheets and wear hospital gowns in case they tried to hang themselves. He didn't have to suffer those particular indignities, but he couldn't escape the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. He suspected he would get used to it, though, that it would become routine like everything else. He'd grown accustomed to eating goulash and cheap peanut butter instead of swordfish and salad, accustomed to owning nothing, not even his clothes, accustomed to having every minute of the day scheduled for him, in contrast to the freedom he'd enjoyed with the Cohens. Only the fear had never become a matter of routine. In juvie he was afraid every day, in a way he had never experienced before. The fear was like a sharp stone that he couldn't remove from his shoe; as long as he kept walking he couldn't forget it, and it never stopped hurting.

At least in the Suicide Room he had little to fear but boredom. The four walls of the tiny cell and the blank eye of the camera kept him safe from the worst of the rest. It didn't matter that he would be on 23-hour lockdown, that he would only leave his cell for exercise and showers and trips to the toilet. It didn't matter that there was no one to talk to, no school, no games in the rec room. What mattered was his promise to Sandy. That was maybe the only thing no one had taken from him yet, and he didn't intend to break it, even if Sandy never knew. It was the only thing Ryan had left to give.

Kelly Davidson tapped his shoulder Friday afternoon and Seth turned in his seat to see half of his AP calculus class staring at him. But no one was more surprised than Seth when Kelly dropped a note on his desk, and he recognized Summer's dainty handwriting. He quickly glanced at her sitting on the other side of the room, but she was staring straight ahead, her eyes trained on Mrs. Ligg.

Check out Piggy's panty line.

The last thing Seth wanted to look at in this classroom was Mrs. Ligg's panty line, but he wasn't about to disobey Summer. He waited until Mrs. Ligg turned around to write something on the dry erase board and then, much to his complete disgust, checked out her ass. Yep, that was a panty line. Seth scratched a message under Summer's writing.

One word: Thong.

He folded the paper in half and in half again—Summer had arranged the note into some kind of star-shaped design that he didn't even attempt to recreate—and, with Mrs. Ligg's back still to the classroom, handed it to Kelly. She looked at him for a second, clearly not getting that not only was Seth the recipient of a note from Summer, but he was actually daring to write back to her, before shrugging and passing it on.

For his part, Seth's surprise was mostly due to the timing of the note, not that she'd written to him at all. Sure, if someone had told him six months ago that Summer would be passing him notes in class, he would have sat down and taken his shoes off to make it easier for the peeing, because the whole thing must be a joke. But now, well, now things were different. Summer knew his name. And she'd kissed him. Multiple times. And the last time he'd spoken to her she'd been dressed as Wonder Woman. Okay, not exactly the last time, but it was by far his most vivid recent memory of her.

Except they hadn't spoken at all since Chrismukkah, when she'd refused his gift of friendship and a Seth Cohen starter pack. Not a word. Not even a "hey" in the hallways. He'd made out with Anna on New Year's Eve, and he thought maybe they were even dating now although he wasn't quite sure, but there'd been nothing from Summer. Until now.

He heard a muffled "eep" from across the room and turned to see Summer trying to smother a laugh behind her hand. His note was open in front of her, and Seth smiled. He watched her scribble a reply and fold the note back into a star, then hand it off to Danny Park.

Seth kept his eyes trained on the dry erase board while the note made its way across the room, and he started copying an equation into his notebook. Kelly didn't bother tapping his shoulder this time. The note landed in his lap.

Ew! That was mean, Cohen.

Seth grinned. He could hear Summer's voice in his head. He glanced in her direction again, but she was facing the front of the room, her face a study in innocence. He read the rest of the note and frowned.

How's Chino?

For a moment Seth thought she meant the city, and he wondered if it was as cold in Chino right now as it was in Newport. But then he realized she meant Ryan, and any pleasant thoughts he'd been having about Summer and renewing their friendship were wiped away.

He'd managed to go nearly 15 minutes without thinking about Ryan.

Since their arrest a week ago, Seth had been nearly constantly preoccupied with worry for Ryan. It had only gotten worse after their short visit in juvie, when Ryan had been exhausted and miserable. His dad had told him Ryan might even have to stay there for a while this time, maybe even months, maybe even get sent to a boot camp for juvenile delinquents, and Seth knew Ryan would fit in at boot camp about as well as he'd fit in Newport. So yeah, Seth was worried. Or actually, he was freaking out, because he had no idea what was going to happen to Ryan or how he'd survive being locked up for weeks or months.

Seth couldn't stop thinking about how unfair it was, that he was back home while Ryan was locked up. And okay, so being at home wasn't all that great right now, with his parents fighting, but not fighting, because they were both apparently so angry that they couldn't even speak to each other. And he was grounded, which meant he was basically locked up too, in a way.

But Seth was getting notes from Summer, and Ryan, well, Ryan was probably fending off gang members or making license plates or sharpening sporks for self-defense. Seth had no idea what kids did in juvie. Ryan had never told him.

The bell rang and Seth jumped in his seat. He'd been totally unaware that another 15 minutes had passed. He quickly folded Summer's note and stuck it in his calculus textbook, then headed toward the exit. Summer was waiting for him in the hallway.

"Hey," she said, smiling shyly at him and rocking back on her feet in that way that made her seem both graceful and naive.

"Hi, Summer."

"Walk me to Spanish?"

Seth had French on the other side of the campus in five minutes.

"Yeah, okay," he said.

They walked in silence through the crowded halls and then the quad. Seth noticed the way kids moved out of the way for Summer. When he was walking alone, stray elbows and feet tended to cross his path pretty regularly.

"Marissa told me about visiting Ryan," Summer said suddenly. She stopped in front of her classroom.

Seth didn't know what to say to that, so he settled on "Oh."

"It sucks in there, huh?"

"Unless blue's really your color and you like living with a bunch of guys who want to knife you in your sleep, then yeah, you could say it sucks."

Summer scowled at him and clutched her books close to her chest.

"So, like, when is he getting out?"

Seth shrugged. "Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? I don't know."

"Cohen-"

"I'm sorry. Look, I really don't know what's going on and this whole thing just blows."

"So you feel pretty guilty about what happened."

Summer had a weird knack sometimes for being a lot more clued in than she looked. Seth ran a hand through his hair and nodded just as the bell rang, and he knew he was going to be late for class. Summer reached out and laid a hand on his arm. He stared at her nail polish, deep purple and flawless.

"Well, if you see him again, tell him I said hi."

She squeezed his arm quickly and then she turned and was swept into her classroom with a flood of kids. Seth waited until the hallway was empty before he walked away.

Ryan sat on the floor of the Suicide Room, his back against the wall, reading One Hundred Years of Solitude, one of the books Sandy had sent him. The title seemed like a sick joke at first, considering his current situation, but the book was really good. The language was so colorful and alive that Ryan always felt a little dazed when he looked up and saw the scarred white walls surrounding him.

He had been in isolation for four days, four days of staring at the white walls glowing under the florescent lights. There was nothing else to look at, no windows or furniture except the bunk. Paperback books were the only personal items he could keep in the cell with him, and he'd grown unreasonably attached to the ones he had. Aside from his jumpsuit, their bright covers were the only spots of color in the room, and the words the closest thing he had to conversation most of the time. Sometimes he felt sick from the constant reading and the bright lights, so he filled the rest of the hours playing word games and doing math problems with his eyes closed. He'd do anything to push away the thoughts that filled his mind.

Marissa seemed like a dream to him now. He had trouble picturing her face; she appeared, instead, as a collection of disjointed images: wide eyes, long limbs, rumpled hair. He couldn't recall the sound of her voice, though he remembered with perfect clarity the soft, slightly damp skin of her palms pressing against his face when she leaned in for a kiss. It was better not to think of that.

He tried not to think of Kirsten, either, because that made his stomach churn with too many emotions to name. He felt sick with guilt when he thought of her face at the police station, but sometimes if the memory hit him at the wrong moment, he was furious, too. Because even if she hated him, even if would never forgive him for getting Seth in trouble, she could have at least looked at him. She could have at least called Sandy. She wasn't his mother, she would never be his parent, but she was supposed to be his guardian. Sometimes the fury made him tense up so much he couldn't breathe from the effort of holding it in. He couldn't just punch the wall or throw his books, not while the camera stared down at him. The room got smaller and the walls got closer and sometimes he just had to grab a book to open up the world again.

The door to the Suicide Room opened, and Ryan looked up. He hated it when they dropped in on him unannounced. He always thought it was time, that they were kicking him out of isolation to make room for someone who needed it more, and he was going back to intake to get knifed by Rivera's friends.

It was Smith, one of the nicer guards, actually. He was usually the one to take Ryan out for showers or exercise. He sometimes asked Ryan about his books or filled him in on the plots of TV shows Ryan had never seen. He didn't really mind, though. It was nice to hear the sound of another person's voice.

"We're going on a little trip," Smith said, beckoning for Ryan to stand.

Ryan set his book aside and got to his feet. "Should I get my stuff?"

"No need," Smith said. He circled around behind Ryan. "You want to give me your hands?"

Ryan reluctantly put his hands behind his back. Smith put handcuffs on him, handling his wrists so gently that in the midst of his confusion Ryan felt a little sad. It was nice, for once, not to be treated like he was dangerous.

"I thought we were going back to intake."

"Nope," Smith said. "Jail services building. Next door."

Ryan had never heard of the jail services building, and he had no idea what happened there, or why he might be going. It couldn't be a hearing, since those usually happened at the courthouse. He was probably due for another meeting with his lawyer, but why wouldn't Mr. Roper just come to see him in juvie? He hated being kept in the dark, but that was the way it worked in juvie. They just decided what you needed to know, and when you needed to know it.

Smith took Ryan's elbow and glanced at his face.

"Hey, kid," he said, "don't look so scared. Maybe it's good news this time."

Smith walked Ryan down the hall of the jail services building, keeping one hand lightly on his arm. They rounded a corner and Sandy was there at the end of the hall, talking animatedly with Mr. Roper. He was smiling, and Ryan felt it again: that crazy rush of relief, like somehow Sandy was going to make everything all right again. It was stupid. Sandy hadn't been able to get him out of jail last week, and in fact he might have made things worse with all his talking. But Ryan had a feeling that if Sandy had been around he might never have gone to juvie in the first place, that he would've gone home with Seth. He would never admit it to anyone, but he felt safer with Sandy around.

Sandy looked up and noticed Ryan, and his whole face lit up. He came down the hall to meet them, doing his funny fast walk where he pumped his arms and nearly bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked kind of like Seth, and Ryan would have smiled, except his stomach was jumping too much.

"Hey, kid!" Sandy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Ready for the meeting?"

Ryan looked at him, waiting. He hadn't known about any meeting.

"Nobody told you anything?"

Ryan shook his head.

"I tried to call you a couple of times this weekend," Sandy said, "but I never got through. They said you weren't available to take calls. Everything okay?"

Ryan shrugged, then nodded. There was no point in going into it.

"Well, the meeting is to discuss your plea agreement," Sandy said.

"I have a plea agreement?"

"Well, not yet," Sandy said. "Ian and I have drafted one, and we have approval from your probation officer and the D.A., but of course nothing is definite unless you agree to it. Then if the judge approves it today, we're all set."

"The judge is here?" Ryan said, swallowing hard. "The same judge?"

"Yes, Judge Alexander. He has an office in this building," Sandy said. "That's why we're meeting here."

Mr. Roper came over and nodded a greeting. "Let's head in."

Smith escorted Ryan through an open doorway, into a room very much like the one where he had met Sandy for the first time, with long metal tables and little stools attached to the floor. Ryan got anxious all over again, remembering that first day, waking up in a cell and thinking, so clearly: so this is my life now. He'd been rude to Sandy, and he was sorry later when he picked up the phone and realized Sandy was the only person he had left to call. Just another thing to be sorry for.

Smith freed Ryan's hands, patted his shoulder, and left the room. Ryan sat down across from Mr. Roper, and Sandy sat down next to Ryan. Which meant he was playing guardian, not lawyer. It had been hard to be sure, this past week. Mr. Roper pushed a pile of papers across the table.

"There's good news. We managed to plea the felony charge of assault on an officer down to a misdemeanor charge of resisting arrest with violence. The criminal trespass is also a Class A misdemeanor, and then there's possession of alcohol, which is a status offense. All complicated, of course, by the fact that these are all probation violations."

Ryan nodded. His fists were clenched in his lap, and he stared down at them, because he sure as hell couldn't look at Mr. Roper or Sandy.

"So according the agreement, you'd enter a guilty plea for the remaining charges." Mr. Roper said. "Which means you won't have an official adjudication hearing with the judge, but–"

Sandy said, "Ryan, I think you should go for this. Since you hit that cop–"

"I didn't hit him."

"Pushed him, then," Sandy said. "It doesn't matter, Ryan. You assaulted an officer and Judge Alexander is notorious for being tough on that kind of thing. My guess is, he'll push for placement in a boot camp. He's a big proponent of them. Fresh air, hard work, the whole bit."

Ryan looked at Sandy and couldn't help scowling. The pictures that jumped to his mind at the words "boot camp" were disturbing. He pictured cleaning toilets and doing pushups and standing at attention while some fake drill sergeant yelled at him. Fresh air and physical activity notwithstanding, he thought he'd probably lose his mind, or at the very least, his temper. On a regular basis.

"Whereas we've asked the judge to consider home detention," Mr. Roper said.

Ryan swallowed hard and didn't say anything. He didn't even know how to ask the questions he had circling in his head.

Mr. Roper looked irritated at Ryan's silence. He said, "Look, Ryan, you're not going to get off with just a fine and probation this time. There are a lot worse things than home detention."

Ryan snapped, "You think I don't know that?"

"Ryan," Sandy said; a warning.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said, and he was. But he would bet Mr. Roper hadn't been locked up a day in his life. He took a deep breath. "I knew people in Chino on home detention. It's – it didn't seem that bad."

Actually, from what he'd seen, home detention was a joke. People sold drugs and stole cars while they were on home detention.

"I just–" he said, and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks and he looked down at the warped metal table. "Um, home? Is that – back with you?"

He sneaked a glance at Sandy, who rubbed his eyebrows and sighed.

"Ryan," he said, "of course."

Ryan stared down at his feet, at the cheap canvas shoes. He didn't know what to say.

"We're all looking forward to you coming home," Sandy said, but he was straining just a little too hard to sound cheerful now. "If the judge accepts the plea agreement, we'll probably be cleared to bring you back tomorrow."

He couldn't help looking at Sandy then. Because he'd imagined all of this happening in the next few weeks, but – tomorrow? He couldn't even let himself think about that for long.

"We're still your legal guardians," Sandy said gently.

Ryan nodded.

"You do want to come home with me?" Sandy said. "And you know there's a chance it won't work out. The judge might send you back to juvenile hall or to a boot camp. I can't make any promises, you know that. But if you can?"

Part of him wanted to say no. The part of him that was tired of accepting help, and living up to expectations, and depending on other people to take care of him—that part of him wanted to refuse. Because he was just going to keep disappointing them, and he knew that. But a greater part of him was just so tired, and there was only one place in the world that felt at all like home. And yeah, he wanted to go there.

He nodded at Sandy and reached for the pen.

"Tell me where to sign?"

The meeting with the judge was over and Ryan paced in the holding cell where they'd stashed him. He was alone for once, no cameras or guards or roommates, and he was furious. He didn't even know why he was so upset, but the anger was flowing through him, noxious and dark, like ink in his bloodstream.

A set of keys rattled in the door and Sandy came in, closing the door behind him. He tilted his head and tried to catch Ryan's eye, but Ryan turned his back, facing the scarred cinderblock wall.

"You didn't tell me this would happen," he said to Sandy. He could hear his voice shaking, and he didn't even care.

"I told you home detention was a strong possibility."

"Yeah, you said home detention," Ryan said. "You didn't say electronic monitoring. You never said I'd have to wear an ankle bracelet."

"I didn't know," Sandy said. "Don't you think I would have tried to prepare you?"

The deliberate, calm tone of Sandy's voice infuriated Ryan even more.

"You could have said something," he said.

"What? At the hearing?" Sandy said. "I was there as your guardian, you know that. Not your lawyer. I wasn't going to open my mouth and say something that might get you taken from us. I couldn't risk that."

He came up behind Ryan and stood close to him, too close, like the Cohens always did. Ryan wanted to move away, but he was staring at a wall. There was quite literally nowhere to go.

"Ryan. Ryan, look at me."

Sandy laid his hand on Ryan's arm, and before Ryan thought, he jerked his arm away with a violence that surprised him. It must have surprised Sandy, too, because he retreated, going to sit on the cement bench that was built into the side of the wall. Ryan leaned his forehead on the cold cinderblocks and tried to breathe. His jaw ached, and he felt sick. This wasn't ever, ever going to end.

"I know it must have been hard for you to hear those things about yourself," Sandy said softly, and Ryan just wished he'd give it up and yell, already. "It must have been humiliating, and infuriating, and I'm sorry."

Ryan gritted his teeth, though it just made the ache in his jaw worse. Sandy had nothing to be sorry for, and they both knew that, and it wasn't even Sandy he was mad at. But he didn't like hearing that he was disrespectful and stupid. He didn't like hearing that he was a danger to society, that he could have killed somebody in the car, or in the fire, or at the construction site. He hadn't hurt the cop, not really. All the people he had ever hurt had deserved it.

"You're coming home tomorrow," Sandy said. "As soon as they set up the home monitoring device you'll be free to leave. You can sleep in your own bed and wear your own clothes."

"Not mine," Ryan said under his breath. He didn't own anything anymore, not even his own body. Maybe tomorrow he'd get to wear clothes no one but him had ever worn, and he'd sleep in a familiar bed. But he'd wear a tracking device, like a homing pigeon. It would be like a dog collar. Like something out of an Orwell novel. A constant reminder that he wasn't free.

"Listen," Sandy said, and now he sounded really angry. "Maybe for once you could just accept the gifts people give you. It's part of being a family. Accepting gifts. Accepting love. Until you learn that, there's nothing I can do for you."

"Oh, so this is a gift?" Ryan said. He was practically shouting, but he didn't care.

"It's not jail. It's not a boot camp," Sandy snapped. "Anything that brings you home? That's a gift. I'm going to take it."

Ryan pushed his forehead harder into the wall, and it was so cold. He was shivering, and he wanted to cry, or turn around and hit Sandy. He didn't want to answer. He couldn't say a word.

"Ryan," Sandy said, and Ryan found his voice again, because he just couldn't take anymore.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he said. "Please."

He closed his eyes and held perfectly still. Finally, Sandy got up and walked quietly over to the door, knocking on it so they'd know he wanted out. Even when the door slammed behind Sandy and the latch slid shut, Ryan stood still.