HEATHER SAID AGAIN. SHE SQUEEZED the steering wheel. She didn’t really like to drive. But Bishop had been insistent. He wasn’t going to make it to the challenge today, wasn’t going to sit around and wait for hours while the players tried to outlast one another in a haunted house. And for once, she’d been able to use the car. Her mom and Bo were getting smashed with some friends in Lot 62, an abandoned trailer mostly used for partying. They’d crawl home around four, or possibly not until sunrise. “They’ll probably try and screw with us,” Nat said. “They’ve probably rigged the whole house with sound effects and lights.” “It’s still too easy.” Heather shook her head. “This is Panic, not Halloween.” Her palms were sweating. “Remember the time we were kids, and Bishop dared you to stand on the porch for three minutes?” “Only because you flaked,” Nat said. “You flaked too,” Heather reminded her, sorry now that she had brought it up. “You didn’t make it for thirty seconds.”
