“And I’m going to go with her and make sure she keeps her mouth shut,” Jess says as Willow elbows him while they leave. Elise and Ryan follow them, and Ryan mouths a “sorry” as they pass; Owen shrugs it off.

“My brother always wanted to ride this thing,” he says, looking up at the flashing lights, the spinning buckets, the massive height.

“I could take him…if you want?” I say, and Owen drops his chin, his eyes softening at the sight of me.

“Take me on what? The wheel? Oh heck yeah, I’m in!” Andrew says as he strides up behind me. I follow him to the ticket line, and he’s talking about how one of the games he was trying to win is fixed, something about the bottle tops being too large for the ring.

His voice is muffled in my ears because I’m desperately trying to keep my attention on Owen. When we step up to the window, I make my request for two tickets, ready to pay for Andrew’s, but Owen’s hand reaches over my shoulder, and he slides a ten through the small slot in the window.

“Make it four,” he says. “You can ride with House,” he says to Andrew.

“Oh, it’s okay. Really, I can just wait on the ground with you. We’ll eat more pie,” I stammer, trying to give him an out as the woman in the booth takes his money and slides four passes into his hand.

“You couldn’t possibly want more pie,” he smiles, handing House and Andrew their passes, his eyes having a silent conversation with his brother and friend. “Guys, really…it’s just a ride.”

Andrew nods and moves to the line for the ride, but House sticks with Owen for a little longer, his eyes telling a different story. “I’m fine,” Owen says, he grits through his teeth, his voice almost threatening toward his friend.

“Sure you are, man. But if you suddenly decide you’re not, you tap out, got it?” House says, holding up his fist, waiting for Owen to accept. Owen just pushes it away finally, his motion harsh and abrupt as he turns and leaves his friend standing with me while he joins his brother in line.

I walk to join them slowly, and before House and I get too close, I ask: “What is tapping out?”

“It’s our safety plan. When we race, there’s always a point where we have each other’s backs—where it’s safe to admit we’ve had enough. We bail on whatever the situation is, back off the gas, pull over and calm down,” House says.

“You ever need the safety plan?” I ask, and he nods yes.

“Has he?” I know the answer as soon as I ask, but it’s confirmed when House sucks in his bottom lip and raises his brow.

The ride before us goes quickly, and Owen is handing the carnival worker our pair of tickets before I’m ready. Instinctually, I look around us, expecting to see a crowd gather, to see people whispering in horror, amazed at what Owen is about to do. But nobody cares. My friends are all up in cars on the other side of the wheel, their view of this completely obstructed. They have no idea how brave Owen’s about to be—and I’m terrified that he’s not really being brave at all, that he’s only being wild, as Willow would say.

“Locked and ready,” the carnie man yells, signaling something to the ride operator. With a jerk, we stream upward about twenty feet, halting fast and our gondola swinging back and forth while we wait for the bucket below us to load more riders.

Owen’s brow is already beading with sweat, and he pulls his hat from his head and runs his long sleeve over his face, his dark eyes blinking fast.

“We don’t have to do this,” I say, but he interrupts me.

“Yes. Yes, we do,” he says, and suddenly, his hand finds mine. His grip on my fingers is hard, but the way we lock together is almost familiar—right. Owen tugs on the fabric of his left sleeve with his teeth, chewing on the ribbed edge for a few seconds before grasping it with his thumb and holding it to his closed lips, his eyes darting from the safety latch to the pivot wheel to the line of people still waiting to load. With every new thing he notices, his grip on my hand gets tighter, and when we swing up even higher, his breath falters.

“I’m going to ask him to stop the ride. Owen, we’re getting off,” I say.

“No!” he says, closing his eyes and squeezing them, tucking his chin into his chest, then shaking his head no. “No,” he whispers. “Please, Kensi. Help me through this.”

Without pause, I pull Owen’s right hand into my lap, and I cover it even more with my other fingers. His leg starts to bounce, and the rhythm is making the cart swing a little too much, so I lift his hand again, this time bringing it to my chest so I can hold it to me closely.