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“Why can’t you like girls with normal names?” I ask. “You could buy her a key chain with her name on it or something and save yourself the money and credit card debt.”

“Apparently I only like girls with weird names,” he says. He nods at the open doorway in front of us. “This is it.”

I take a step forward, but he waits.

“What is it now?” I ask.

“I just—you have to understand, he’s going to look—”

“Sick? Older?”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t run screaming from the room or make any comments or anything.” I cross my arms. “I’m not that much of a bitch.”

He places his hands on my shoulders. “I know.”

I shrug under his grip, not wanting him to know that his comment at the second contest bothered me as much as it did.“I mean, Iama bitch sometimes.”

“I am too, though.” This is as much of an apology for our nastiness in the past as we’re going to get.

I jab my thumb toward the room. “Let’s go?”

Inside, two voices sing along to some song I don’t know, played at a volume that is probably too loud for a hospital, but, hey, it’s the kids’ ward and it’s the afternoon. A Black girl with a massive head of curls sits on the end of the lone hospital bed in the room, her hands in latex gloves and her mouth covered with a mask. Trevor, or at least a stretched-out, older, thinner version of him, sits on the other end of the bed, a laptop on his knees. His own curls are completely missing, buzzed down like the sides of Holden’s head. He’s officially not a baby-faced baby anymore.

Holden points at a box of gloves and masks next to the door. I put them on as Trevor and his friend look over.

“Hey, guys. Is that the Reading performance again?” Holden asks, donning his own protective gear.

Trevor smiles, and if the years have been unkind to every other part of him, at least they allowed his grin to stay as bright as ever. “Hey, you actually got it right.” He angles the computer toward us and it shows a YouTube video of Green Day playing in, Holden guessed it, Reading. The quality is pretty shit; most likely the video was uploaded back in the Potato Era—480p max, but probably 360p.

“I was about to tell him no just because he always guesses that and is always wrong, but,” the friend looks to Holden, “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, Ant.” Holden gestures to me. “Trev, you remember—”

“Saine Sinclair! I’d know her anywhere. She’s the reason I grew so tall.”

“Uh, what?” This girl,Ant, looks as confused as I feel.

“She used to water my head so I’d grow like a Chia Pet.” He pats his buzzed head. “I’m six foot now. Taller than Holden.”

I step farther into the room. “I must have added too much MiracleGro that one time.”

Trevor points to the armchair by his bed. It looks worn in and comfortable, not like the other chairs I’ve seen in hospitals. This is a chair belonging to someone who has been here too long. I sit and introduce myself to Ant.

She waves, her visitors badge crinkling on her shirt. “Antonia.”

“Call her Ant,” Holden says, dragging another well-worn chair next to mine. His hand brushes against my arm when he sits. “She loves being called Ant.”

“Just because I tolerate it doesn’t mean I love it.” She sends an unimpressed side-eye in his direction.

“What were you guys doing?” I ask, settling in.

“Just listening to music.” Ant leans against the meal tray attached to the bed. “Figuring out what to do tonight.”

“What are your options?”

“We could watch Netflix,” Trevor says, ticking it off on his finger. “Or... yeah, that’s pretty much it.”