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“Oh.” He looked relieved. “I thought you said ‘chicken nuggets.’ I was like,what?”

Why—but—what?

I decided to go into nurse mode. Which was difficult, given that I had no idea what red flags I was looking for, but Mom, ever the schoolteacher, had drilled drug safety into my head constantly since I hit puberty. Find out what they took, when, and how much. Just in case someone needs to know at some point. In case something goes wrong.

“Is that what you were doing outside?” I asked. “Eating gummies?”

“No. How long do you think it takes to…”

Sentence over, apparently. I pressed him again. “When did you eat the gummies?”

“Before the party.”

I checked my phone. Three hours ago? “How many did you take?”

“Two, then I took another an hour later because I didn’t…”

End sentence. Okay, so he had three, two to three hours ago. That didn’t seem like an awful lot. And surely it wouldn’t be hitting himnow,three hours later? Did that mean something else had happened? Was something wrong?

I didn’t want to make a huge scene out of things, not yet, in case Alexei’s parents left their bedroom to see what was going on. I’d involve them if I needed to, obviously, but I didn’t want to throw Finn under the bus just yet. Not when all he was doing was sitting on his hands and hallucinating talk of nuggets. I mean, who among ushasn’thallucinated someone promising us chicken nuggets at some point in our lives?

I sent Brooke a text to ask her to come to the study—alone—and put a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”

He concentrated very hard on his answer. Good to know I was getting quality, thought-out content here. “I feel… like my throat has become an icicle. My throat is just all… ice.”

Finn took his glasses off and, purposefully and methodically, slid them underneath the sofa.

At that moment, God sent me an angel in the form of Brooke Nguyen. I beckoned her in as I rescued Finn’s glasses from their hiding spot.

“What’s going on in here?” she asked.

I glanced at Finn. “My face is falling apart,” he informed Brooke solemnly.

“He ate three weed gummies.”

Brooke gaped. “Three? You’re supposed to haveone! Or, like, half of one, really. They don’t regulate the doses properly, it’ssoeasy to take too much.”

“He said he took them hours ago, though,” I said. “Are we sure it’s that?”

“Yeah, Darc, they get digested, then they hit. Digestion takes time.”

Oh. Now she said that, it made perfect sense.

On the plus side, Brooke didn’t seem concerned. A little worried, maybe, but there was enough humor behind the worry that I didn’t feel the urge to race for Alexei’s parents, or 911.

“Brooke,” Finn said, a sudden urgency in his voice. “Brooke, Brooke, Brooke. Brooke.”

“Yes, Finn?”

“I figured it out. I died about half an hour ago! I’mdead. That’s why.”

Brooke shot me a sideways glance. “Oh dear.”

“Is this bad?” I asked. “Can he die?”

“Nah, you only die from edibles if you do something stupid while you’re high andthatkills you,” Brooke said. “He’ll be fine if we keep an eye on him. He might green out, though, if it gets any worse.”

Wellthatsounded ominous. “Which means?”