The homes are well lit and neatly fenced, with long, winding driveways. These are the kinds of places where people have horses and gardens and sell fresh eggs at the roadway. “Nice neighborhood,” I say. “Keep driving,” Cyn says. We turn onto a driveway barely visible in a bank of trees. The car lurches into a pothole, and the headlights bounce up onto the wall of trees on either side of the road. From up ahead I can hear bass notes thumping, like we’re driving to a party. Cyn says, “This is far enough.” She unrolls her window. “Turn off the car.” Cyn doesn’t make a move to get out. I say, “This is your place? I thought your parents were away.” She gives me a puzzled look. I say, “Mila said they were in Hawaii.” She holds her hand up as if to shush me. Clearly, her parents are back, because I hear a man’s voice and a woman’s.
