Because it’s almost midnight, I don’t bother calling my mother to check on Jenna. I’ll be home soon enough, I promise myself. But I’m glad Dave’s driving, because even though I roll down the passenger side window enough to get a stiff, cold breeze across my face, I’m in no shape to drive. Dave realizes this, and doesn’t even suggest we stop to pick up my car, just drives past the now darkened mall and onto his house.
He lives a few streets down from the high school, in a cluster of well-kept condos that look fairly new. At least, they weren’t there when I was younger. His truck weaves through the brightly-lit parking lot, around three-story townhomes and bungalow-style garden apartments, to a small building set back off Conduit Road. “This is it,” he says, cutting off the engine. “Casa Kn
