I’m afraid to look.

The medic works to stabilize Owen’s bleeding, tearing cloth and rewrapping his arm, removing what glass he can. He speaks into a radio strapped to his shoulder, asking for help transporting Owen, and soon two more firefighters arrive, carefully placing Owen’s arm in a splint, urging Owen to lie on his back, on the stretcher, so they can carry him down the stairs.

Owen fights them, unable to say actual words other than “no” and “leave me alone.” He eventually walks with assistance down the steps, to his living room, his mom rushing in the door, meeting him with her own tears.

Horror. Both of their faces…horror.

And I can’t help.

James was high. He was high, and he was scared. He stole a car from a mall parking lot three towns over, then led police on a chase along the highway, hitting several cars, leaving a trail of injuries and damaged vehicles along the roadway as he exited the wrong way up a ramp. He raced down the two-lane roadway to his home, down the dark stretch of country road Owen had once raced on carelessly with me, down the strip of roadway James had taught Owen to drive fast on as a kid.

He swerved through his mother’s front yard, clipping the bumper of Owen’s truck, and spinning the stolen car to the side, stopping near the end of the driveway—sideways, the hood bent open and the wheel crushing the brick of the house.

Police had him then. He was circled, the three cars that had followed him collapsed on him, six officers opening their doors quickly, drawing their weapons and ordering James to just. Stay. Put.

But James was high.

And he was scared.

And that gun, the one Owen once held to his own head in a dare, the one that I saw James threaten Owen with only a few weeks ago—it was in James’s hand.

The police called for back up, and SWAT came quickly. That’s when Owen woke up. James held the gun to his side, his other hand behind his head, scratching at his hair, rubbing his neck vigorously, his brain trying to think under a fog of impairment, his heart desperate for a solution, for a way out of this hell.

More guns were drawn. James became agitated, holding the gun up over his head. This is when officers began to order him to drop his weapon, when Owen and I ran up the stairs.

It all happened in seconds, slices of time that felt as though they took hours to pass. Owen saw his brother out that window, he saw how frightened he was, how cornered he was, and he knew there was no way out.

Owen knew.

He saw it coming before James lowered his arm just enough, tilting the gun just right, the barrel pointed to his head. He knew a millisecond before his brother drew his finger back, pulling on the trigger with the right amount of pressure.

Owen knew his brother was dead the minute he came home from school two days ago and saw James was gone. He didn’t know how it would happen. But he knew it would.

And he knew he’d feel like it was his fault in the end.

Chapter 20

My father hasn’t been back to the house, and I haven’t asked my mother when or if he’s coming. I don’t care any more. He can move in here, and my mom can give in, live in her self-made prison. I hope she doesn’t, but either way, in six more months, I won’t be here to see it.

I haven’t resolved myself to college or the road, but whatever it is, it will be my choice—of my doing. The only person I care about disappointing is myself.

And Owen.

Owen hasn’t been to school, and I’ve noticed the piles of homework left in Mr. Chessman’s class for him. Every day, the pile is gone, so someone is taking Owen his work.

There wasn’t a funeral. Funerals are expensive, and no one would show up for James, Owen said. I go over to his house every night, and we sit in his room, perched on the edge of his bed, holding hands, but not talking.

We never look out the window.

His mom is home—time to grieve. But even she doesn’t seem broken. They just seem as if they’re going through motions, carbon copies of themselves—the same tired and exhausted bodies, but spirits and hopes completely washed away. Owen’s taking care of the “paperwork” and filing death certificates; investigating old credit accounts in James’s name and calling relatives. His mom began cleaning out his room within a few days.

Neither of them has cried again like they did the night James put the gun to his head. I just don’t think they can anymore. They’re…empty.

Willow and Jess don’t know what to say. Even now, days later, they walk along with me out to the parking lot, making plans, talking in half sentences, afraid everything they say might offend me. Everyone’s heard the story. Things like this, they spread quickly in Woodstock.