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Chapter Thirty-Eight

Dylan

T he school Silas goes to has the day off, so he swings by SH Prep at four and picks me up, and we hang out at his place. A normal house—not like the mansions on the peninsula or some of the other neighborhoods in Sandy Haven.

When he boots up Call of Duty, I tell him how I get kinda weird about dead bodies and stuff.

Makes him freeze in his seat, controller still in his hand. “Shit, man, I should’ve thought about that.” He looks over at me, like he’s studying me or something. “I feel like a fuckin’ tool,” he says. “I’m so sorry, man.”

I tell him it isn’t a big deal. And he keeps saying he feels bad.

I feel like an asshole for making him feel bad. And like a pussy in front of this guy I basically just met a few weeks ago.

None of this shit is as easy as Morley made it sound like it would be.

I make up some lame excuse about forgetting that Phil asked me to help him with something this afternoon, just so I can get the hell out of here. Then Silas tells me about his parents. The stuff that happened to them. How he still gets nightmares. Had them for years and it’s why he started drinking when he was just twelve or thirteen. Because it was the only way he could fall asleep without waking up freaking out and in a sweat.

I pretend to get a text from Phil saying he doesn’t need my help until later.

We play Rocket League. Silas kicks my ass.