Gansey had only a few seconds of warning before the Camaro hit him.
He was sitting at a stoplight near Monmouth Manufacturing when he heard the familiar, anemic sound of the Pig’s horn honking. Possibly he had imagined it. As he blinked out the windows and the rearview mirror, the Suburban shook slightly.
Something had pushed it from behind.
The Pig’s horn quacked again. Rolling down the window, Gansey craned his head out to see behind the Suburban.
He heard Ronan’s hysterical laugh before he managed to glimpse the Pig. And then the engine revved up and Ronan nudged the Camaro into the Suburban’s rear bumper again.
It was about the sort of homecoming he should have expected after the disastrous weekend.
“HEY, OLD MAN!”
“Ronan!” shouted Gansey. He had no other words. Wrecked. The quarter panel he could see looked fine; he didn’t want to see the rest. He wanted to preserve the idea of the Camaro, whole and entire, for a few moments longer.
“Pull over!” Ronan howled back. There was still rather a lot of a laugh to his voice. “Mennonites! Now!”
“I don’t want to see it!” Gansey shouted back. The light turned green above him. He didn’t move.
“Oh, you really do!”
He really didn’t, but he still did as Ronan asked, pulling through the light and making the next right into Henrietta Farm and Garden (and Home), a complex of shops largely staffed by Mennonites. It was a fine one-stop destination for vegetables, antiques, doghouses, Western wear, military surplus, Civil War bullets, chili dogs, and custom chandeliers. He was aware of eyes from the outdoor vegetable stands as he parked the Suburban as far away from the buildings as possible. As he climbed out, the Pig thundered into the spot next to him.
And there wasn’t a thing wrong with it.
Gansey pressed a finger to his temple, struggling to reconcile the texts from earlier with what he was seeing. It was possible Kavinsky had just been jerking his chain.
But still, here was Ronan, climbing from the driver’s seat, which was impossible. The keys remained in Gansey’s bag.
Ronan leapt from the car.
And this, too, was bewildering. Because he was grinning. Euphoric. It wasn’t that Gansey hadn’t seen Ronan happy since Niall Lynch died. It was just that there had always been something cruel and conditional about it.
Not this Ronan.
He seized Gansey’s arm. “Look at it, man! Look at it!”
Gansey was looking. He was staring, first at the Camaro and then at Ronan. Then back again. He kept rinsing and repeating and nothing made any more sense. He stepped slowly around the car, looking for a hammered-out dent or a scratch. “What’s going on? I thought it was wrecked —”
“It was,” Ronan said. “It totally was.” He released Gansey’s arm, but only to punch it. “I’m sorry, man. It was a shitty thing for me to do.”
Gansey’s eyes were wide. He hadn’t thought he would live long enough to hear Ronan apologize for anything. He realized, belatedly, that Ronan was still talking. “What? What did you say?”
“I said,” Ronan said, and now he grabbed Gansey’s shoulders, both of them, and shook them theatrically, “I said I dreamt this car. I did this! That’s from my head. It’s exactly the same, man. I did it. I know how my dad got everything he wanted and I know how to control my dreams and I know what’s wrong with Cabeswater.”
Gansey covered both his eyes with his hands. He thought his brain was going to melt.
Ronan, however, was in no mood for introspection, his or anyone else’s. He ripped Gansey’s hands from his face. “Sit in it! Tell me it’s any different!”
He pushed Gansey down into the driver’s seat and draped Gansey’s lifeless arms over the steering wheel. He considered the image before him as if analyzing a museum piece. Then he reached in over the steering wheel and snatched a pair of sunglasses that were sitting on the dash.
White, plastic, lenses dark as hell. Joseph Kavinsky’s — or maybe a copy. Who was to say what was real anymore?
Ronan put the white sunglasses onto Gansey’s face and regarded him once more. His face went somber for half a second, and then it dissolved into an absolutely wonderful and fearless laugh. The old Ronan Lynch’s laugh. No, it was better than that one, because this new one had just a hint of darkness beneath it. This Ronan knew there was crap in the world, but he was laughing anyway.
Gansey couldn’t help laughing along, rather more breathless. Somehow he had gone from such a terrible place to such a joyful one. He wasn’t sure that the feeling would be so profound if he hadn’t braced every bone in his body for an argument with Ronan. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, tell me.”
Ronan told him.
“Kavinsky?”
Ronan explained.
Gansey rested his cheek against the hot steering wheel. That, too, was comforting. He should have never gone without this car. He was never getting out of it again.
Joseph Kavinsky. Unbelievable.
“And what’s wrong with Cabeswater?”
Ronan shielded his eyes. “Me. Well, Kavinsky, actually. We’re taking all the energy from the line when we dream.”
“Solution?”
“Stop Kavinsky.”
They eyed each other.
“I don’t suppose,” Gansey said slowly, “that we could just ask him nicely.”
“Hey, Churchill tried to negotiate with Hitler.”
Gansey frowned. “Did he?”
“Probably.”
Letting out a huge breath, Gansey closed his eyes and let the steering wheel cook his face. This was home: Henrietta, the Pig, Ronan. Nearly. His thoughts darted toward Adam, toward Blue, and rabbited away.
“How was your party, man?” Ronan asked, kicking Gansey’s knee through the open door. “How’d Parrish do?”
Gansey opened his eyes. “Oh, he brought down the house.”