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I drop two gears and let Little Green scream.

He’s not far now. I shoot up his left side in a narrow gap that closes behind me like a zipper and crowd him.

“That’s how you want to do this?” I say.

I lean in, hard, too hard, until my mirror is a hand’s width from his bar end, and take the last of the lane. He drifts right. I match him. He sits up, shakes his head, hits the throttle, and I’m already there.

“Nah,” I murmur, to myself more than to him this time. “Fuck you.”

Ramp’s coming. I flick across his front wheel toward it, so that he can basically grab brake or eat my rear tire.

He chooses brake. Nowhere to go but off-ramp now. He’s behind me, no choice, and at the bottom the pavement just quits. Loose gravel and hardpan, and then past that, nothing but scrub to the horizon.

Nothing to hit.

I suck in a deep breath and squeeze the rear brake with everything I’ve got. My bike slides sideways across the gravel in a big, graceless arc as my boot plows a furrow. Behind me, I hear Pan’s tires hit the loose stuff, hear the front end skitter, and he spins out, boot punching down for purchase, until finally the two of us grind to a stop in a cloud of desert dust.

My hands are shaking on the grips as it settles, unable or unwilling to even try to move, tight with adrenaline. A few feet away, Pan sits, no movement but his chest heaving and no sound but the ticking of his engine and mine. Then he rips off his helmet and swings his leg over the bike.

“What the fuck was that?” He flies over to me, gets in my face. “You have some kind of fucking death wish?”

“Me?” I chuck my helmet into the dirt, breathing hard. “You’re the one with the—you have a gun, Pan?”

He backs off, just an inch or two, surprise washing over his face. “How the fuck—” He shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. So what?” Pan’s face sets. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna kill Hook.”

“What?” I cry. “What the fuck, Pan? Why?”

“Because of what he did. To you.”

Shock. Shock. I’m stunned. I can’t move. I’m paralyzed.

“You…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Pan’s standing tense, like he’s almost vibrating, staring hard at the sweep of dry empty desert before us.

“You never told us, Tink,” he says. “You never told me. You—” Suddenly he licks his lips, ducks his head, swings his arms. “No, of course you didn’t. Why would you? I was a shithead. I am a shithead.”

“You weren’t⁠—”

“Don’t start,” Pan says, wheeling around with a finger in my face. “Don’t. Don’t lie for me, don’t cover up my tracks, Tink. I was a shithead. To you—fuck, to everyone—and I know you’re too fucking smart to lie to me about it again.”

I close my mouth, heart pounding. Nod. “You’re right.”

“Yeah.” He squares his shoulders, stares out into space again. “So I know why you didn’t say anything, okay? I don’t blame you—shit, how could I blame you? I just…” He rakes his hands through his hair. “I didn’t realize. Fuck me, I didn’t realize anything. Like what a mess we were before you, what a mess I was, and then you show up and you’re the best friend I’ve maybe ever had, and then you bring in this kid and her dog and she’s weird and cool and makes things fun and…” He spins around, shaking his head. “There’s no us without you.” His face is smeared with dust and sweat even as his skin is radiant in the orange desert light. “Fuck, there’s no me without you. You’re it, Tink. You’re magic.”

I can’t help it. I start to cry. It’s too much, all of this, all of him. “No,” I manage, whipping my head back and forth as I swallow down a sob. “No. Don’t say that, don’t⁠—”

“Why not?” He throws his hands in the air. “Why not, for real? It’s true. It’s true and it took me way too fucking long to realize it. So⁠—”

“So you’re going to go murder someone because of it?” I cry. “Murder…murder a fucking mob boss, and probably get killed yourself?”

Pan’s face fades to stony seriousness. As if to say, yes, exactly.

“No,” I cry. “No, Pan. I don’t want that. I don’t want any of that. Do you understand?” I grab him by the T-shirt collar so I can force him to look at me. “Do you get it? That is the last thing I want.”

For a moment, Pan’s silent.

“God.” He gives a little laugh. “I want to do the most fucked-up thing possible right now.”

“Which is what?”