Nine
A few days later, Bash drove out to Tristan’s house and the two of them rifled through the box his mother had left in the garage. A ripped set of snow pants patched with about half a roll of duct tape. A battered old pair of ice skates. And the best find of all—his favorite old pair of sunglasses, which he’d worn with pride from age twelve through fourteen.
Tristan burst out laughing at the sight of them. “The old lightning bolt shades. Nice.”
Each lens was shaped into its own jagged bolt of lightning—in a garish bright yellow. They were completely absurd. Bash had found them by the side of the road and claimed them immediately.
“Brings back a few memories, right?”
“Unfortunately. Hey, let’s take those skates to Trumpeter Lake and see if there’s any ice left.”
“The lake’s probab
