They’re coming.

His room is a crime scene. A ten-by-twelve-foot glossy photograph of him cheating on his girlfriend. He had snipped out Dakota but could still see the scissor lines. Sharp edges where she’d just been. The wine bottle. Two glasses. Her shape, pressed into the bed.

The Bend Parade is coming upstairs. They’d gotten to Cheri. They are coming for him. Lance runs a series of wall-to-wall sprints—a human pinball, bouncing off corners, snatching up wineglasses, smoothing bedsheets.

Fists on his wooden door. Shouting.

They’ve come for the Wildman.

“Lancelot!” Jonathan says. “Open up!”

Lancelot. His nickname does it, turns a final gear in his head that automates his elbow and hand and causes him to unlock the door, and in rolls the storm.

“Whoa!” Darren says. He fills the door frame—life-size, freckled, with dark hair twisting up behind his neck. Miriam dubbed the look shaggy chic, but Darren was clearly flirting with a mullet. Darren, looking him up and down, soaking up information. Lance looks at himself. Fitted T-shirt. Tattered jeans. It was as if he had carefully hidden all evidence of his criminality, then answered the door in an orange jumpsuit.

“Whoa, Lance. Are you wearing a costume?” Darren asks.

“Let me see.”

Miriam. There she is. Miriam. A real person.

“Hey,” he says.

“Well, look at you,” she says. He can’t tell exactly what she means. They hug, tight and close, and the essence of Miriam whips up around him: her perfume like fresh-cut grass, the familiar press of her body. They’re on an early-morning bus to a concert, side by side on her basement sofa, talking beside her locker. Laughing. Two years in a flash, slapping him awake.

She smiles at him and it feels good.

“So are you going to invite us in?” Jonathan asks, squeezing around Miriam. His perfectly square jaw. A blond sweep of hair over his eyes. Lance reminds himself: This is your best friend.

“He doesn’t have to invite us,” Darren says, shoving past him. He carries a giant red cooler. Duct tape letters on top spell b-e-e-r. They’re inside. Reflected in the mirror. And Lance sees his room through their eyes. The muddy path worn into the beige carpet. Giant box of a television. Gray fur on the lampshade.

“I’ve always wanted to get wasted in a seedy motel room,” Darren says. “Beer me.”

“I don’t know if this qualifies as seedy,” Jonathan says, tossing Darren a beer. Lance catches the next one.

“Are you kidding?” Miriam says. “I would rather pitch a tent than sleep in here.”

“It’s the cat picture,” Jonathan says, handing Miriam a beer. “It shows a certain attention to detail.”

“How did you get here?” Lance asks Miriam.

“We drove,” she says. “It’s not that far.”

“We’re on a mission from God,” Darren says.

“Your mother,” Jonathan says. “Close enough.”

“She bought gas. Meals. Snacks,” Darren says, grabbing up a paper sack. It was from Oodles!, his mother’s favorite grocery store. “She’s so nice, that Mrs. Hendricks.”

“Generous woman,” Jonathan says.

“And we drove the whole way without opening a beer,” Darren says. “Mission accomplished.”

They knock beer cans, pop them open. Foam dribbles onto the carpet.

“Looks like Lancelot’s already started,” Jonathan says, pointing to the wine bottle. “Drinking alone, are we?”

An eel slithers in Lance’s stomach. He glances at the bathroom, where he hid Dakota’s wineglass. He closed the cupboard beneath the sink, right? He must’ve, but can’t specifically remember doing it.

“Not alone,” Darren says, crossing the room. Lance’s heart jolts. Darren is walking to the TV, reaching behind the TV. What has he found? Dakota’s keys? Her book? He must tackle Darren before he can show anyone.

“Lance has been hiding something from us,” Darren says. With a flourish, he holds up Mr. Jangles.

AHH-HAHAHAHA!

Lance shudders.

“Jangles is a whisky man,” Jonathan says.

“How do you know he’s a man?” Miriam says.

“Please put that thing away,” Lance says.

“Speaking of whisky, we’re going to that bar,” Darren says. “And my ass is getting served.”

“Well—” Lance starts.

“As long as someone can drive back to Bend,” Miriam says.

“Why do you think we brought you, Miriam?” Jonathan says.

Ooooooooo. Laughter. Miriam punches him.

“Dude,” Darren says. “What’s up with not answering texts?”

“No service,” Lance says.

“Well look,” Darren says, staring at his phone. “I have perfectly good service.”

“Most of the time,” Lance says. “It’s in and out.”

“How about you, Jonathan? You got service?”

“Yeah.”

“Miriam?”

“I’m good.”

“Lance, let me see your phone.”

“Piss off, Darren.”

“Language, Lance!” Jonathan says.

“You’d better be careful when you give your big speech,” Darren says. “Don’t let any of that Redneck Washington creep in.”

“Is Leeds completely losing his mind?” Jonathan asks. “Your mother and him have been talking. Quite a little consortium.” Jonathan squares his shoulders and pulls his arms into his shirt so only his hands show—doing his best Mr. Leeds impression: “Way I see it, graduation is the most important event of your young lives. What I can’t understand is why some of you haven’t been measured for your gowns yet. Your arms. They may not fit. Look at me. Just look at me!”

They laugh. Lance drinks more and they’re relaxing into the room until it’s no longer there, talking like they’ve always talked. A conversational jam session with the band who taught him how to play. He knows the rhythms and the tempo, how to hit the right notes. Darren, loud and blustering. Jonathan on the quippy interludes. Lance lays down a steady, agreeable beat, and Miriam tosses in a laugh when they need it most—the perfect high-range melody.

They haven’t practiced for days, but you’d never know it.

“I can’t believe you’ve been here four days,” Darren says. “Noble Lancelot, holed up in a shitty hotel room. Practicing your trumpet.”

“Jumping trains,” Jonathan says with a smirk.

“Knife battles,” Miriam says.

“Be honest, dude,” Darren says. “Did that happen?”

“Yeah,” Lance says.

The band stops. Lance has just taken an unauthorized solo.

“Yes. I actually jumped a train,” he says, trying again.

But did he? Sitting here with his friends it’s almost hard to believe.

“I did,” he repeats, trying to make it real.

“What about getting served at that bar?” Darren says. “Bullshit, right?”

“No. It’s real.”

“So let’s go.” Darren pounds his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Let’s get out of this shithole and have an experience.”

“I don’t know if they’ll let us all drink,” Lance says.

“So it is bullshit,” Darren says, crossing his arms. “That’s what I thought.”

“Fine,” Lance says. “Let’s go.”

“Really?” Jonathan says.

“Yeah. Right now.” Lance sets his drink down. He opens the door to the balcony and maybe The Float will be gone. Like it never existed. Just a field, overgrown with blackberries. But it’s still there for his friends to see. Neon flickers in the distance. Lance is dizzy, but not from the wine. Leaving his room is an out-of-body experience. He drifts along the length of the balcony, down blue steps, into the dark sea of the parking lot, walking an unsteady tightrope to The Float.

“Hello, stranger,” Miriam says, at his elbow. “How much wine did you have?”

“I’m okay,” Lance says.

But the tightrope is creaking as they pass Dakota’s door. Iron hooks in his lungs, dragging on his rib cage. He’s going to fall. Can’t breathe.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Miriam asks.

“Of course I am.” He smiles. Humid air sticks in his lungs like paste.

“Have you had a good time out here?” Jonathan asks, falling into step with them. He gives Lance a strange look.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “I’ve had a good time.”

Lance runs his tongue over the backs of his lips. Still raw. He wants Jonathan to stop looking at him, but Jonathan is staring like he has X-ray lip vision. Like he’s waiting for Lance to admit something. They finally reach the edge of the field.

“We should have walking sticks,” Jonathan announces. “I’ll round some up.”

“We don’t need walking sticks,” Lance says. “I’ve walked this path a million times.”

“I’ll make a path,” Darren says. “I can already smell the whisky.”

Darren plunges into the field. Miriam follows, laughing. Then Jonathan. Lance brings up the rear. He’s always last. Always following Jonathan’s eager, pigeon-toed walk. Those leather shoes, which have clomped down an endless number of school hallways and rehearsal spaces, chewed through riverbanks and lawns.

When Jonathan crushes the first moonflower, the word STOP catches in Lance’s throat.

They appear suddenly, and they’re everywhere, dotting the weeds underfoot. Jonathan doesn’t notice. Neither does Darren, nor Miriam. They’re busy talking, kicking their way down the path. Miriam crushes two flowers with her right foot. Darren lets his walking stick swing like a scythe, shredding one. Another. Maybe on purpose.

Lance stands still, letting the distance grow between him and his friends. He can’t tell them to stop. Not after white wine and new jeans. He can’t afford to be off-key again. And these flowers shouldn’t matter to him.

How long had he lived without seeing them? Forever. His whole life. They probably grow wild in Bend. He has probably already stepped on a thousand of them. He will just go back to the way he was before he noticed.

He raises his shoe over five rounded tips. A perfect star.

He drops his foot. The crunch of its stem rides up his leg. That sensation. He can’t stop feeling it. But he’s just taking another step. Just putting one foot in front of the other, and following his friends to The Float.