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The word soaked is such an understatement, it’s actually kind of comical. It’s like saying Princess Aurora got sleepy . It’s Star Wars, except the galaxy is “a bit of a schlep.”

Because, it turns out, Natalie’s not interested in the Playland pavilion next door. She wants the one that’s past Playland,

past the gift shop, past the shooting gallery, in an entirely separate open-air building.

Suffice it to say that the Ziploc freezer bag Natalie stuffed in her purse this morning is the reason we both still have functional

phones. I could probably fill a swimming pool just from wringing out my socks.

Nat reclaims her glasses from the freezer bag, and now they’re officially the only spot of dryness in the entire vicinity

of her face. Her hair’s pulled back today, but the little loose front parts cling slickly to her flushed, gleaming cheeks.

There are even raindrops on her eyelashes when she blinks. “Hey, we made it,” she says.

“I mean.” I let out a quick, breathless laugh. “We’re not technically at the bottom of Oneida Lake, so yeah.”

I peer around, taking in the rows of claws and Skee-Ball lanes and test-my-strength machines. There’s a Zoltar machine directly

behind us, too, and in the center of the room: a literal carousel.

“Do we need a swipe card?” I ask.

Natalie grins. “Nope. Tokens!”

But apparently this place is too old-timey even for that. The games take quarters . It’s legitimately wild—I can’t remember the last time I’ve put a quarter in anything. I turn to Natalie. “What’s that trick

to figure out if you’re dreaming?”

“You mean this?” She pinches my forearm.

“It didn’t hurt!” I press a hand to my mouth. “That means it’s a dream, right?”

Natalie laughs. “Let me get this straight. You’re questioning the very fabric of reality because an arcade takes quarters.”

“Correct.”

“But being surrounded by demons in pitch darkness—” She steps closer. “That part’s okay?”

“Yes,” I say, and my brain’s one big tangle of wires. No thoughts. Just electricity and chaos. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Because they’re my wingmen,” I say.

“The demons.”

“Yes.”

Those strands of hair are starting to curl around her ears as they dry, and it’s making my thoughts go blurry.

“How are the demons your wingmen?” she asks.

“Because demons have wings.”

“Right, of course.” She’s standing closer than normal. Closer than real life. “It’s their civic duty. How could I forget?”

We’re not even touching. That’s what’s so weird about it. It doesn’t feel like normal space between us. It feels like the

space between magnets.

The stupid thing. The glitchy thing.

My brain’s completely underwater.

Someone just asked me a question. A kid in an orange Syracuse hat.

I blink at him. “Wait—what? Sorry—”

“Are you done?” He points to Zoltar.

“Oh! No. I mean, yeah. All yours.”

The front page of my brain refreshes. Welcome back, Amelia. It’s Friday, you’re soaked down to your socks, and if Zoltar turns

this kid into Tom Hanks, it’s probably your fault.

I reach for my phone, just to anchor myself.

Pocket’s empty. But I’m not going to panic. I slide my bag off my shoulder and start rummaging through it.

“Lose something?” Nat grabs my phone out of her freezer bag, and I let out a laugh.

“Wow, I’m a dumbass.”

Natalie starts to smile. But when she glances down at her own phone, her expression falters.

“Why are you making a whoa face?” I ask.

“A whoa face?”

“Like, a whoa-I’m-freaking-out face. It’s the face! With the forehead!”

“I don’t have a forehead face!”

“Not in general! It’s one facial expression. Very rich in foreheadry. Kind of like”—I tilt my head down, wrinkling my brow—“this.

See?”

“Very flattering, thank you.” She taps her screen and frowns.

“Hey.” I rest my hand on the coin machine, leaning in closer. “You okay, Nattywhompus?”

She blinks. “Sorry, yeah. Wait, I’ll get us some quarters.”

“I can get them,” I say, reaching for my zipper pouch. But I freeze before my hand finds my pocket. “Hold up. Claire texted you, didn’t she?”

Nat’s cheeks go pink. “What?” It comes out weirdly high-pitched. Almost squeaky.

“Oh my God, she did !”

“I guess—”

“Wait.” My heart drops. “Have you guys been texting this whole time?”

“No! Amelia—not at all. I haven’t even talked to her since prom.”

“Couldn’t even let you have the weekend. I swear to God. Every goddamn time.” I sink my hand into my pocket, grab my pouch,

and extract a mostly dry five-dollar bill. Which I proceed to jam into the bill slot with extreme nonchalance. A pile of coins

spills from the machine with a clatter, and I scoop them up with my palm. “What does she want?”

Natalie shrugs. “She just asked if we could talk.”

I lean back against a bank of coin pushers, feeling suddenly faint. “Are you going to talk to her?”

“I don’t know! Probably not.” She plucks a quarter from my hand, edging in beside me to slip it into a coin pusher slot. It’s

a well-placed shot, but the moving shelves manage to absorb it without knocking a single coin into the winner zone. She wrinkles

her nose at me. “Rude.”

“The coin pusher or your shitty ex?” I ask, but my chest’s already unclenching.

“Both.” She laughs, grabbing another quarter. She doesn’t change slots, but this time, it veers inexplicably into the center. “I think it’s rigged.”

“Let me try.” I drop a quarter into the slot, where it promptly sends a whole section of coins cascading down a level.

Natalie and I both stop short, eyes glued to the console.

And, okay, I know it’s just an arcade game. But that clang of falling coins, followed by a rush of spurting tickets—you can’t

tell me that’s not music. It’s a whole entire symphony.