Chapter 17. Liam
Ever since I got here, I’ve started noticing people care about me, which is something I never really had before. It's good and bad. Good because it's nice being taken care of. Bad because now I can't fucking disappoint them by hurting myself! Annoying.
Which is so damn nice that I'd be a fool to complain. I’m only a fool sometimes.
Now my appointments are monthly. It used to be weekly, those sessions, me sitting in the beige office with the fake plant and the tissue box, trying to explain what it feels like to hate the thing that keeps you alive.
Dr. Herrera never rushed me, never flinched, just sat there with her reading glasses pushed up into her dark hair and let me talk myself into circles.
Monthly feels like a promotion. Like someone, somewhere, stamped a form that says I'm not actively trying to die anymore. Yay, me!
I'm not. Most days. I can't imagine dying and leaving Ethan behind. And Lu. Margarete, Dora, Jack, Miles, even Griff… how pathetic.
Jack's laugh is back to full volume, like he temporarily made peace with his reality.
Miles has started reading in the common areas instead of hiding in the library.
There have been fewer lockdowns. Fewer fights.
The hole hasn't had a resident in three weeks, which might be a record.
Part of it is the season, that primal mammalian lift when the sun finally stays up past five.
Morning roll call. Griff stands at the front of the yard.
"Listen up," he says, and the kids go quiet because we always do when Griff speaks.
"As some of you already know, the week-long summer break is coming.
It's for residents with qualifying behavior records.
This applies to residents in their second year or beyond who have maintained consistent participation in programming, zero major infractions in the past ninety days, and a positive review from their assigned counselor. "
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Someone near the back lets out a whoop that Griff silences with a single raised eyebrow.
"As usual, you'll report the place you'll be staying during the break.
You are to stay at that designated location for the entire week.
Wandering is not allowed. We'll be conducting random check-in calls, and if you don't pick up, your break is over and you're back here the same day and you may lose eligibility for future outings.
Details will be posted by end of day, along with the list of approved residents.
You guys are leaving by the end of the week. Don't screw this up."
I feel the news land like a fucking bomb.
A week. Out. I glance at Ethan, who's standing with his arms crossed, and he gives me the smallest nod.
We qualify, both of us. Fucking fucking hell!
Jack, too, I realize, when I see him pump his fist against his thigh, grinning.
Harry adjusts his glasses and tries to look unbothered, but his foot is tapping double-time against the grass.
Then I look at Miles.
He's standing perfectly still, unblinking.
Same neutral expression, same blankness.
He doesn't ask. He doesn't need to. His record, the thing he did before he came here, the violence that lives in his file like a stain that no amount of good behavior can bleach out, it keeps him where he is. He knows it before anyone says a word.
I want to say something, but what? Sorry your past won't let you go? Sorry the system doesn't care about you no matter how hard you try? I look away, and it makes me very sad for him, but what can we do?
The rest of us fucking buzz. Plans are already forming, guys counting days on their fingers.
I can't fucking wait, even if I have nowhere to go. Maybe I'll just wander around a McDonald's, give it as my location, eat cheeseburgers three times a day, breakfast, lunch, dinner, and McNuggets in between.
Later, during snack break, I'm killing time with Jack by my side, watching people knock a half-deflated soccer ball around the cracked concrete.
My eyes drift, and I see something that I can only describe as 'fuck, this is scary': three older guys, twenty-six, twenty-seven, all with I'm a fucking loser vibes, closing in on Harry.
Harry's posture is all loose-limbed confidence, as if he has no idea, but I know him better than that.
He's got peripheral vision like a lizard.
If he hasn't run, it's because there’s no escape.
I nudge Jack in the ribs and nod there.
He follows my gaze, and his mouth tightens. "Harry's got more lives than a cat. He'll be fine."
"Unless today's the day he isn't."
Jack shrugs. "He owes me thirty bucks. If he dies, you're on the hook."
I'm about to tell him to eat my ass, but Ethan is already moving.
He's across the yard but before I can get up, he's already there.
The three guys have Harry boxed against the fence, just far enough from the guards to avoid immediate intervention.
Harry's leaning back, arms out, as if holding an invisible court.
He's smiling, but it's the kind of smile you wear when you're about to get punched and want to look good for the mugshot.
Ethan steps between them. Jack and I are already heading over.
"Everything cool here?" he says, dry.
The three boys look at him like they're about to punch him instead. One of them is named Deacon and he has the biggest nose I've ever seen, and ugly yellow hair. He squares his shoulders and tries to make himself look a foot taller, but Ethan is still taller than him.
"What's it to you, Farley?" he sneers.
"Just checking. I thought the drama club had rehearsal on Tuesdays."
Deacon's eyes flicker. The other two, Joey and Mayhew, are all close, scowling, but not doing anything.
Deacon jerks his chin at Harry. "Your boy owes us."
Harry puts both palms up, as if he got caught by the police. "Gentlemen. Can we not do this with so many eyes? My reputation…"
"Your reputation is shit," Deacon snaps. "You said last week you'd have it. Now you say tomorrow. It's always tomorrow."
Harry's voice goes up half an octave. "Supply chain issues, my dude. The market is volatile. If you want to take it up with…"
Mayhew slams his hand into the fence right by Harry's head. "You think you're funny?" Mayhew says. He's the one with a shaved skull and the kind of face that looks like not even a million years of therapy and meds could fix. "You're dead if you don't pay up."
Ethan steps forward. "Back off," he says, voice low, and it's not a suggestion.
Deacon looks to Joey, who's the smallest of them and has a full face of acne, who just shrugs, as if to say, "Not my fight, man." Mayhew hesitates, then lets go of the fence. The three of them turn and stalk away.
As soon as they're gone, Harry lets out a long, shaky breath. "I had it under control," he says.
"Sure you did," I say, sliding up next to him. "You looked real menacing. If menacing means 'shitting yourself'."
Harry grins, but it's thinner than usual. "Comedy hour. Love it."
Ethan doesn't smile. He just stares at Harry, eyes cold. "You want to tell us what the fuck that was, or should we wait for the obituary? It's the fucking drugs again, isn't it?"
Harry glances around, making sure no one is close enough to overhear, then lowers his voice. "I'm dry, I told you,” he says. "Like, Sahara dry. Nothing's coming in, nothing's going out. I've been stalling those guys for weeks."
Jack shows up, hands in his pockets. "You told me you had a new supplier."
Harry shrugs, helpless. "I lied."
I whistle, low. "You're fucked. Like now I see how fucked you are."
Harry nods, lips pressed together. "Yeah. If I don't deliver, I'm dead. Or worse."
Jack snorts. "What's worse than dead?"
Harry smiles. "Ask Deacon. He's got a brother at county. They do things with pipes there."
There's a silence. Ethan breaks it. "What's your plan?"
Harry looks at us, one by one. For once, all the snark is gone. He looks like a real person. "Summer break is in a week," he says. "I need to get to my dad."
Jack cocks an eyebrow. "Your dad? The guy who sent you here instead of bailing you out?"
Harry's voice goes tight. "He doesn't know how bad it is. He thought this was just a slap on the wrist. He doesn't know… what I've got running. If I can talk to him, face-to-face, he'll make it right."
"Or he'll kill you," I say.
"Probably. But he's used to dealing with my shit." Harry says. "It's my only shot. And I need you guys."
"Us?" I ask. He nods.
Ethan folds his arms. "What do you need from us?"
"I need you to come with me. He listens better when I've got backup. You have to show him that I'm not fucking around, that it's real. That I'm actually fucked."
Jack's eyes narrow. "You want us to, what, intimidate your billionaire father?"
Harry nods, dead serious. "Exactly. I can't fucking do this on my own, my dad doesn't take me seriously. He’s gonna think I’m begging him to get me out, which I haven’t done once in all these fucking years, but he's an asshole, he's always calling me, asking when I'm ready to quit."
That surprises me. I never really thought about Harry having feelings, or anything.
"You always treat us like your second option when it comes to your friends. You don't even eat with us. Why us?" Ethan asks, raising an eyebrow, and Harry actually looks concerned for a second.
"These guys are my clients. Ex-clients now." He says it like we're his real friends. And I believe him.
Ethan stares at him for another beat, analyzing him with those cold (and gorgeous) eyes, and after what seems like forever, he finally nods.
Then, he looks at me. "You in?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely, I have nowhere to go during the break. This will be awesome."
Jack grins. "Guess I'm coming too. I want to see the look on Daddy Westfield's face when he realizes his son is the world's worst drug lord."
Harry beams, brighter than I've ever seen him. "You guys are the best. Seriously."
"We'll handle it," Ethan says. "But you owe us. Big."
Harry nods. "Anything. All the drugs you want."
Ethan doesn't think it's so funny. He starts the scolding: "This is what landed your ass in this situation…!"
"You have no sense of humor, Farley," Harry cuts in.
Jack nudges my elbow. "Think your boyfriend's gonna get us all murdered by a billionaire?"
I grin. "Well, it'll be a good death."
"You're gonna love the house, we're gonna have so much fun," Harry swears.
That afternoon, Harry doesn't show up to rec.
I notice before anyone says anything. It’s weird, not seeing Harry around. He’s usually walking from group to group, charming people, making jokes, winking too much.
Jack notices too. He's pretending not to, flipping a card over and over between his fingers, but his eyes keep going to the door.
Rec is over. We go back, and I’m hoping to see him in his bed. He’s not there. We don’t say anything, but when Harry finally comes back to the room, I know immediately.
He's moving wrong. Too careful, one hand on the wall, the other at his side. His glasses are slightly crooked and there's something dark and wet soaked through the fabric of his gray sweats at the knee, where the skin has been scraped open against something rough, something like concrete.
"Harry," I say.
"Don't," he says.
"Sit down," Ethan says, and it isn't a request.
Harry sits on my bunk, which is easier for him to reach, as he doesn’t have to climb up to his. He doesn't argue, which tells me something is really fucking wrong. Harry always argues about everything. Just like me, who’s always complaining.
Ethan crouches in front of him, pulls the fabric back. The scrape is bad. Not deep enough to need stitches, but raw and dirty, the kind that stings for days and gets infected if you leave it.
"Did you fall? Did someone push you? Who?" Ethan asks.
"Doesn't matter."
"Harry."
"Ramos sent people. Two guys I don't know very well, I think they’re in room 9, Lefebvre and Martin. Waited until I was in the back hallway. One shove and they were gone. Very professional." He adjusts his glasses. "I'm impressed, honestly. Clean execution."
Nobody laughs.
Ethan goes to his drawer. He keeps a small first aid kit there, of course he does, and brings it back. He cleans the wound without being asked and also without having permission, but he doesn’t care about these details. Harry looks at the ceiling the whole time, jaw tight, not making a sound.
"You need to tell Griff," Ethan says.
"No."
"Harry…"
"There’s no way. If he learns about the drugs, I’m screwed, you know." He finally looks down. "I just need to get through the break. Talk to my dad. Get this resolved."
Ethan wraps the knee in a clean bandage, presses the edges flat. Then he sits back on his heels and looks at Harry for a long moment.
Jack leans forward from his bunk, elbows on his knees. "Ramos's people aren't going to wait a week."
Harry considers this. "I can avoid anyone for a week. I've been avoiding my feelings since I was six."
I laugh, loud. He has a commendable sense of humor, at least.
"Great," I say. "So we have a plan."
"Yeah," he says. “Whatever.”
I can't wait.