“Hunh,” he said, remarking on a crater round and sharp as a smallpox scar. The moon itself was nearly full, just a lip missing. It seemed too close to Harold, a fat gold coin in the cold night air, peeking over the row of town houses across the street, painting the leaves of Miss Fisk’s hedges silver, throwing his shadow halfway to her porch. Hunter’s moon, his father would have said. He’d have to wait a day to wish on it proper. And what would he wish for, for Chris to get his legs back? For Eugene to stop acting all God-struck? For that mouthy little fool Bean to come back from the dead? Or—honest now—would he betray all of them just to be with Dre again? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. For now he was relieved to be alone, out of the house. He was even glad, for the moment, not to be there yet, faced with Dre. He breathed out a blue cloud. Around him, Spofford was dark and quiet, a few upstairs windows filled with a cozy yellow light. He liked the night, and finally being away from the brightness of the living room, the stupidity of the TV.
