I didn’t want to stay in my room—I actually didn’t think it would be healthy to, if I wanted to avoid heatstroke—but I didn’t want to tiptoe around my parents downstairs. And I didn’t want to go over to campus, or go downtown by myself. I was starting to get a jumpy, claustrophobic feeling. I needed to get out, but I’d technically just come back. And where was I supposed to go? I kicked off my flip-flops and tossed them into my closet, where they landed on my sneakers and gave me my answer.

Without thinking twice, I pulled the sneakers out of the closet, then reached for the drawer that held my workout clothes. I wasn’t sure it was going to make anything better, but it was the only thing I wanted to do at that moment. I was going for a run.

* * *

JUNE

Two years earlier

I shook out my arms and tried to pick up my pace, trying to ignore how my breath was coming shallowly. I hadn’t run since school had ended two weeks before, and I was feeling it with every step. I’d made the cross-country team as a freshman, but had lagged behind the rest of the team and wanted to get my times up over the summer so that I would have a chance of making it again in the fall, when I knew the competition would be more intense.

Since there were too many people and too many excuses to slow down in my neighborhood, I’d gone out of my way to run in this one. It was a good ten miles from my house, and I had a feeling my return might end up being a walk—and a long one, at that. I’d spent almost no time in this part of town, Stanwich’s backcountry. There weren’t any sidewalks, but running on the road didn’t seem to be that big a deal, since there were also almost no cars.

I was just debating if I could keep going, or if maybe the time had come to give up and start walking, when I saw the girl.

She was pacing back and forth in the driveway of a house, but she stopped as I approached, and shielded her eyes from the glare. Then, to my astonishment, she started waving at me—but not the normal kind of saying hello waving—the kind of waving castaways on islands did to flag down passing ships.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she called, as soon as I got within earshot. “I’ve been waiting for you!” I slowed to a walk, then stopped in front of the girl. She looked around my age, except that she was dressed much better than anyone I knew—wearing a silky flowing top with her jean shorts, bright-red lipstick, and mascara. But contrasting all of this was the fact that her hair was underneath a towel, which she’d twisted into a turban.

“Me?” I asked, trying to catch my breath, glancing behind me to see the road was still empty. But she couldn’t have meant me—we’d never met before. I would have remembered that, I was sure of it.

“Well,” the girl acknowledged with a smile, “someone like you. Someone who didn’t look like a total scary weirdo. Although at this point, honestly, I probably would have taken that, too. But you’re like the first person to show up here in like an hour, I swear. I was worried that I was suddenly in a zombie movie where all of humanity had disappeared.” She stopped and took a breath, and I just blinked, trying to keep up with what was happening here. She spoke fast, and seemed to be a combination of stressed out and on the verge of cracking up, which was a mixture I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before.

“What—” I started, then stopped, when I realized I wasn’t sure what to say here. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she said, then seemed to rethink this. “Well, I mean, I’m, like, physically fine. I’m just . . .” She took a breath. “Can you help me break into my house?” She pointed behind her, and I felt my jaw fall open.

It was an absolutely enormous mansion. It looked old, stately, and very grand. It was the kind of place I could imagine steel barons owning, a house where black-tie parties were thrown, where duchesses and senators were invited to dinner, where grave, white-gloved butlers would open the front door.

“I live here!” the girl continued. “I swear, I’m not trying to steal anything. I just locked myself out.” She shook her head, then reached up to steady the towel. “And normally, I’d be all whatever, just take a walk or work on my tan or something. Because my parents are coming back at some point. You know, most likely. But I’m a little worried my hair’s about to turn permanently green.” After she said this, she started to laugh, closing her eyes and bending forward slightly, her shoulders shaking.

Even though I didn’t know what was funny, and was still trying to figure out what was going on here, I felt myself smile as well, like I was about to start laughing too, just to be in on the joke.

“Sorry,” she said, straightening up and letting out a breath, pulling herself together. “The situation is just so ridiculous.”

“Why is your hair about to turn green?” I asked.

The girl grimaced and pulled off her towel. I felt my eyes widen as I took a tiny step back. Her hair was coated in a bright green mask that looked like it was hardening into a helmet shape. “You’re only supposed to leave it on for twenty minutes,” she said, reaching up to tentatively touch her hair. “And it’s been, like, an hour. Or more. Probably more. Oh, god.”

“Sure,” I said, “I mean, how can I help?” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I was surprised I’d said them. But I had meant it, 100 percent.

“Oh, thank you so much,” the girl said, her shoulders sagging with relief. “We just moved in a few weeks ago, so it’s not like I even know where the best places to get in are. But I’m pretty sure there’s an open window I can get to, if you just give me a boost.”

“Okay,” I said, and the girl grinned at me and headed up the driveway. I followed, and noticed she was barefoot, and that the chipped bright-red polish on her toes seemed to match her lipstick. The house was even more impressive the closer I got to it, and I suddenly realized I’d seen it before. When we’d first come to Stanwich, when my parents were house-hunting, the realtor had driven us past it, talking about how it was one of the town’s architectural landmarks, using words I’d never heard before, like portico and vestibule. “Your house is amazing,” I said as I followed her around the side, gazing up at it.

“Thanks,” she said with a shrug, clearly not as impressed as I was. “Okay, see that window?” She pointed up to a window that looked worryingly high, but that I could see was open, the beige curtains inside blowing in the faint breeze.

“Yes,” I said slowly, trying to figure out how—even with my help—this girl was going to get up to it.

“So I think if you just give me a hand, I should be able to get in,” she said. “And then I can wash this stuff off. And hopefully it won’t have done permanent damage, or made my hair fall out, or anything like that.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said, even though I had no knowledge whatsoever about this. I regretted it immediately—the leader of the pack of girls I was friends with would have rolled her eyes and asked, how, exactly, I knew that. But this girl just smiled at me.

“Thanks so much,” she said. Before I could reply, the girl was striding forward, examining the window, hands on her hips. “I think this should be doable,” she said, though she sounded less confident than she had a moment before. She looked at me, and I suddenly wished that I looked more pulled together—which was ridiculous, because I’d been running. But this girl looked so cool, I couldn’t help but be aware that I was wearing my old, too-short running shorts, and an ancient sheer T-shirt of my mom’s that read Williamstown Theater Festival Crew. “Thank god you’re tall,” she said. “I’m so jealous. I wish I was.”

“You’re not that short,” I said, since I only had about four inches on her.

“I am, though,” she said, shaking her head, and I noticed, getting a little worried, that her hair didn’t move at all when she did this. “Oh my god, when I was in Copenhagen, it was the worst. Everyone there is tall. I was practically the shortest person around. You would totally have fit in. I love your T-shirt, by the way. Is it vintage?”

“Um,” I said, looking down at it, thinking that vintage was probably not the right word for it, but nodding anyway. “Kind of. It was my mom’s.”

“Awesome,” she said. “You can tell. Cotton only thins out like that with years of washing. I know a consignment shop in San Francisco that would pay you at least a hundred bucks for that.” She seemed to realize that we’d gotten away from the mission at hand, because she turned back to the window.

As I looked up at it, I couldn’t help but wish that Beckett had been with us, since he would have been able to get up there, no problem.

“Okay,” the girl said, looking from the window and back to me. “Maybe if you give me a boost?”

“Okay,” I echoed, trying to sound more sure of this than I felt. I met her eye, and we both started laughing, even though I couldn’t have said why.

“Oh my god,” the girl said, clearly trying to regroup. “Okay. Okay okay.”

I made a cradle with my hands, and she stepped into them. And while I tried my best to push her up, this quickly turned into the girl basically standing on my back while she grabbed for the windowsill.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe this. Am I hurting you?”

“It’s fine,” I managed as I tried to stand up and give her another boost.

“Got it!” she said triumphantly, but when I straightened up, I saw this was maybe a little optimistic, as she was hanging on to the sill, but seemed much closer to falling to the ground than getting herself into the window. “Um, sort of.”