RILEY
I was writing at midnight for no particular reason. Just — sitting at the kitchen table after the twins were asleep with a notebook open, working through my thoughts the way I do, long-hand, the way my fourth-grade teacher taught me when she figured out I processed things better with a pen in my hand than out loud.
I wrote about the lake. About the way it had felt to have my chin on his shoulder on the ride back and not move it. About Hunter's face when he learned the pull-back trick, that specific pride of a kid who's just discovered something his body can do. About Luna naming Grayson's stuffed wolf Brick and appointing it as a getaway driver.
I stopped and looked at the page.
The handwriting was doing something I didn't like. Getting looser the further down the page I got, mor
