Niobrara had a population of 4,502 and only one restaurant with cloth napkins. In the summers, kids hunted for crawdads in the creek or languished in the anemic air conditioning of Dollar General. In the winters, they didn't do much more than wait for summer to come around again.

Wynn knew, in the cosmic scheme of things, that Niobrara mattered to no one. A tiny town in a forgotten state, folded into the soft hills of the prairie, Niobrara could have simply blinked out of existence and the world wouldn’t have noticed.

And yet, it was Wynn's entire universe. He'd been born at the Wilson County Hospital. He'd spent Easters and Christmases and every Sunday in between sitting on the hard pews of the Methodist church on Frew Street, fidgeting in his stiff Sunday clothes. He'd lost his first tooth while eating a cheeseburger at the Starlite Shake Shack. He'd broken his first bone on the athletic field of Niobrara County Middle School. He'd slow-danced with a girl from the first time during his sophomore year Spring Fling dance, pivoting on the scuffed gym floor as he tried to figure out where the hell to put his hands.

Places like Paris or Washington, D.C., or even Sioux Falls might as well have been orbiting out beyond the asteroid belt for as much relevance as they had to Wynn's life.

* * *

It had been three months since Wynn had carved their names into the bark of the dogwood. It had been three months since Wynn had told Alfie what had turned out to be a lie.

It's gonna be a good summer.

It hadn't been, for either of them. Not really. Not when Wynn was being honest.

The first day of classes had dragged by interminably. Wynn had always liked school—or, at least, he hadn't disliked it. School had always relatively straightforward for Wynn. If he took notes in class, was polite, and did his homework, he did well. Never top of the class, but always firmly—invisibly—above average. But that first day of senior year, he'd had to fight to keep his leg from bouncing, his eyes from straying to the second hand limping across the clock face.

Once the bell rang, though, he was free, clutching at these few unexpected hours of free time. He was only working for his dad on weekends now—football practice was the one thing Wynn's dad held sacred above all else, and he'd adjusted Wynn's hours accordingly.

But football practice didn't start until tomorrow—and so, for the first time in months, Wynn could do whatever the hell he wanted.

Which meant, of course, hanging out with Alfie.

If Alfie still wanted to hang out with him, that is. Wynn hadn't missed that Alfie had been resolutely avoiding Wynn all day, slinking into classes the moment before the teacher started talking and choosing a desk far away from him. Wynn had looked for him at lunch, but Alfie had vanished until Wynn saw him again in the very back of their sixth period AP biology class.

He found Alfie by the bike racks, battling the rusted U-lock currently shackling his rusted bike. Though the school year had started, the weather remained staunchly stuck back in high summer, the sun beating down from overhead, so hot it seemed to drain the energy from everything it touched.

"Hey," Wynn said.

Alfie looked up, a scowl etched on his face, until he saw it was Wynn's shadow that was blocking his light.

He squinted up at Wynn.

"Hey," he said.

"So, uh, whatcha up to?" Wynn said, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other. "Wanna do something?"

Alfie's expression was the definition of reproachful, and though Wynn knew he deserved it, it still stung. He'd barely seen Alfie that summer. Between the summer football practices and forty hours a week at his dad's office wedged in around training, Wynn had barely had time to shower, let alone hang out with anyone.

And the few times he did manage to rouse up enough energy to go out, he'd been torn between spending time with Alfie—his best friend, his twin, halfway to his soulmate—and spending time with the classmates who didn't cause the twitch in Wynn's dad's jaw to reappear whenever Wynn mentioned their names.

Wynn's father—the senior Robert Andrew Wynn—had never been Alfie's biggest fan, and what had happened that last summer hadn't helped. Wynn was really Robert Andrew Wynn, Junior—but, in kindergarten, there'd been four other Roberts in his class, and so when the teacher got to Wynn, relegated to the end of the alphabet, they'd run out of nicknames.

So, yes, maybe he had been avoiding Alfie. And he hadn't even been brave enough to admit it, telling himself he was tired, telling himself he was busy, telling himself a hundred other lies to ease the guilt he felt at abandoning his friend.

"Thought you had practice," Alfie grunted, turning back to his bike lock. He jerked it violently, and the thing came apart with an unpleasant screech, making them both wince.

Wynn looked out towards the horizon, hazy and blurred with the heat.

"Not today," Wynn said. He swallowed hard, hoping Alfie wasn't going to make him beg. He wasn't above it, and, god, he hated when Alfie was mad at him, even when it was merited. "I was thinking we could… y'know. Hang out or something. Since I was so busy this summer. Maybe go to the summer spot."

Alfie's head snapped back to Wynn so quickly Wynn was worried Alfie might pull a muscle. Alfie's face changed, and his brow softened, a sweetness Wynn rarely saw at school infusing his delicate features, someone gentle and compassionate peeking out from behind his bristling.

"Really?" Alfie said. He was trying to sound gruff, but Wynn couldn't help smiling. He'd won, he knew—that look on Alfie's face meant that Wynn could have told him to run to the moon and back, and Alfie would have simply asked how many times. The reverse was true, though, too—if Alfie had asked for a kidney, Wynn would have grabbed the nearest carving knife and gotten to work cutting it out.

He hadn't done a great job of showing Alfie that, though. Not lately.

"Yeah," Wynn said, the syllable bouncing out of his mouth and splatting onto the pavement like wet newsprint. It did nothing to convey how Wynn craved spending time with Alfie, how all this summer he'd felt as though a whole corner of his mind was gathering dust when it should have been filled with Alfie—his gold-flecked eyes, his laugh, high and clear as birdsong, his acerbic wit—harsh and bright and never, ever directed at Wynn.

Alfie stood up, U-lock in hand, not quite meeting Wynn's eyes.

"Fine then," he said. His voice was a little too relaxed to be convincing. "Get your bike."

Wynn's shirt stuck to his back as he freed his own bike, a sturdy mountain bike he'd gotten at the start of high school, and found Alfie waiting for him, leg slung over his bike, staring off into the hazy distance like he didn't care one way or another whether Wynn joined him.

"So do you wanna go or—"

The question wasn't even out of Wynn's mouth before Alfie started pedaling like a bat out of hell. Wynn jumped on his bike, hurrying to catch up. Between the two of them, Wynn was the athlete, but today he had to work to keep up with Alfie as they sped down the side of the highway towards Wilson Creek—and, a little further beyond that, the summer spot.

"Alfie—slow down—" Wynn called. "You're gonna give yourself heat stroke—"

Alfie didn't listen, though, just pedaled faster without looking back—either he didn't care if Wynn was following him, or he knew that there was no chance Wynn wouldn't.

The spiky weeds on the side of the highway blurred as Wynn picked up speed, and beyond that, the prairie rolled away from them in soft, undulating waves, dry and golden. The wind sang in his ears, a murmuring shush-shush, like voices just out of earshot, telling him something he needed to know but could never quite understand.

Above, the sun blazed and blazed and didn't seem to care much that Wynn and Alfie were both dripping in sweat when they reached the creek. The air scorched his lungs as he panted.

They dumped their bikes beneath the gnarled oak tree at the creek, its branches draped with the ropes of three different tire swings that had been lost to time. By the time they kicked their way through the brush and scrambled down the dusty embankment, Wynn's t-shirt was plastered to his back, and his mouth was as dry as the packed earth beneath their sneakers.

"Jesus," Wynn grunted, tossing his backpack down in the meager shade of the dogwood tree. He pulled out his water bottle and took a long sip. The water was stale and unpleasantly warm, but Wynn was too hot to care.

He realized Alfie was standing still, squinting against the bright light, his arms folded over his thin chest. His normally pale face was flushed from the ride. Wynn wondered if he'd grown over the summer—he looked a little taller, or maybe it was just the way he was standing, braced and defiant, because his clothes still hung off him awkwardly. Alfie's mom always seemed to think Alfie was a good two sizes bigger than he really was, judging by the clothes she bought for him.

"Alfie?" Wynn asked, frowning.

He followed Alfie's gaze. He was looking at the trunk of the dogwood tree, at their names etched in the bark, the cuts slightly worn by three months of the elements.

"Oh," Wynn said.

Alfie turned his head sharply, looking over at the creek. At this time of year, even creek was a fairly aspirational term for the weak trickle of water that oozed across the scorched riverbed like a bead of saliva.

There was a long pause, and Wynn could hear nothing but the dry, hot rush of the wind and his own heartbeat, thudding loudly in his ears.

"I'm fuckin' mad at you," Alfie said, still glaring at the creek as though it had been the one to abandon Alfie this summer.

Wynn looked down at his hands. They still had strange little indents from the rubber grips of his handlebars. He hadn't even realized he'd been clenching his fists so tightly as he rode.

"I'm sorry, Alfie," he said softly.

"You promised," Alfie said, and there was some edge to his voice, something more desperate than Wynn expected, that made Wynn's head snap up. Alfie was staring at him now, but his expression was stricken, not angry.

"I did," Wynn said. It hurt to hurt Alfie, but the pain felt justified, the first part of his penance.

The worst thing was that a part of Wynn had known what he was doing. That part of himself felt foreign, alien, like some horrible creature with tentacles and foul breath had snuck into his brain while he wasn’t looking, whispering cruel things about his dearest friend.

But Wynn knew his father had noticed he and Alfie weren't hanging out.

And he knew his father approved.

It had been easy to pretend he wasn't avoiding Alfie. But—god, finally—it had been such a good summer. Not good because he liked his job—he didn't—or good because of the memories he'd made with other friends—they weren't kind, and he'd always wished he were with Alfie instead—but good because his dad finally seemed happy with him.

Or, if Wynn's dad wasn't happy, per se, he at least wasn't actively disappointed in Wynn.

And, to Wynn, that was enough of a rarity that he had to chase it when he could find it.

Wynn watched Alfie, who watched him, and he wasn't sure if whether he should apologize again or wait for Alfie to speak his mind.

Alfie made the decision for him.

"You said you wouldn't ditch me," Alfie said, his words coming out quick and sharp, hitting Wynn's skin like BB pellets. "And then you did. I barely heard from you, I barely saw you, and when I did I was just so damn grateful to get to fuckin' see you that I couldn't even tell you how goddamn mad I was."

Alfie uncrossed his arms, his hands balling into fists. He wasn't exactly good-looking—on a good day, his features might be described as unusual—and now was no exception, his face tomato pink from anger and exertion, his hair in desperate need of a trim, his lower lip quivering.

But, god, did he look striking like this, fierce and trembling with emotion, those eyes, gold-brown and leonine, pinning Wynn in place like some well-preserved beetle.

And Wynn was struck again by how much he'd missed Alfie.

Had missed Alfie's smile, the way his bottom teeth were a complete mess in a way that was somehow charming, and the way that crooked, challenging grin seemed to pull his features into harmony.

Had missed the way Alfie seemed to know exactly what Wynn was thinking, even before Wynn knew it himself, how Alfie always seemed to untangle the little threads of thought or worry or hope, as though he were a tour guide to Wynn's own brain, more at ease there than Wynn himself.

And he had missed who he was around Alfie, someone a little braver, a little more outspoken. Someone who was worthy of a friend like Alfie, who sparkled and thrummed and shone, but only out here—only when he was with Wynn, away from the judging eyes and closed minds of the people of Niobrara.

Alfie swallowed hard, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand impatiently.

"And even now," he said. "Even now, I had this whole—I had this whole fuckin' speech planned out about how goddamn alone I felt this summer, after all that shit, but—"

He faltered, looking away from Wynn again. And though his glare had been uncomfortable, Wynn missed it immediately, as though Alfie's hurt, betrayed gaze had been an express train right to the deepest parts of Alfie's heart.

I'm so, so sorry, Wynn thought, as though he could somehow slingshot the words from his heart to Alfie's.

"It really hurt," Alfie said quietly. "That you… didn't even miss me."

Wynn's heart fractured into a hundred, then a thousand, little shards, peppering his insides with shrapnel. Alfie was so far from the truth.

"I feel so pathetic," Alfie muttered. "I spent the whole summer… waiting around for you. Wondering if you even really wanted—"

"Oh, Alfie—" Wynn whispered, and he closed the distance between them, wrapping Alfie up in a sweaty, overheated hug.

"Get off me," Alfie growled, squirming in Wynn's arms but not pulling away. His skinny arms hung at his sides as Wynn hugged him tighter. His voice was a little breathless, probably because Wynn had forced all the air from his lungs.

"I missed you so goddamn much, Alfie," Wynn said into Alfie's shoulder. "It was so fucking shitty without you. It was like all the fun parts of summer were gone, and I was just working for my dad and going to practice and fighting with my sister. I felt like I was stuck on this hamster wheel where every day was the same, and every day sucked because I couldn't see you."

It was way too hot for an embrace like this—his blood congealing in his veins, his brain slogging through the sunlight. But he couldn't let Alfie go, not until Alfie knew somehow, some way, that Wynn's summer hadn't been a happy one. Not without Alfie.

"Let me go, you lunatic," Alfie said, wriggling again, but his voice was softer now, with an edge of humor, and his hands found their way to rest lightly on Wynn's waist.

Wynn stepped back, his hands still on Alfie's shoulders, Alfie's hands on his waist, an absurd parody of two kids slow-dancing together at prom.

They looked at each other for a long moment, and though Alfie wasn't glaring at Wynn anymore, Wynn could see hurt and hope warring in his eyes.

"You could have seen me, though," Alfie said, frowning. "You could have picked up the phone and called me. Or found me. I was always waiting."

Not dropping his eyes, not glancing away, was suddenly the hardest thing in the world, but Wynn managed.

"You're right," he said simply. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."

Alfie let out a short, humorless laugh.

"It's funny," he said grimly. "You think you know what you want someone to say to you, but then you hear it and… it just doesn't matter as much as you thought."

"Do you believe me?" Wynn said, squeezing Alfie's shoulders. His hands were a sweaty mess—his whole self was a sweaty mess—but a blizzard could have ripped through the plains right then and Wynn would have barely noticed.

"Do I believe that you fucked up?" Alfie said. "I mean, yeah."

Wynn rolled his eyes, but it was a good sign that Alfie was being a shithead again.

"No," he said. "Do you believe that I'm sorry?"

Alfie looked at him, then looked away, then looked back at him.

He sighed heavily.

"Yeah," Alfie said, and Wynn knew he was telling the truth. "Still was a totally fucked thing to do. Especially after—"

"Yes," Wynn said, nodding fervently. "Yeah, it really was fucked."

Alfie closed his eyes and stepped back, pulling himself away from Wynn's touch. He wiped his brow and went to the fallen log, unearthing the lunchbox that had sat untouched all summer, since the last time they'd come here on the final day of school back in May.

Wynn watched as Alfie sat down in the shade and lit a cigarette. Alfie's posture was godawful—always had been—and he looked like he was huddled against a bitingly cold wind instead of languishing under the late August sun. But there was a certain grace and familiarity to the way he flicked the lighter and inhaled deeply, his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.

It looked like a ritual, Wynn realized, some sacred rite Alfie was performing that Wynn had no part of.

"Did you start smoking?" Wynn asked, frowning.

Alfie opened his eyes, but he was staring at some point beyond Wynn, looking a little guilty.

"A little," he said, shrugging. "Sometimes. Like, on breaks at work. Just to have something to do."

"Oh," Wynn said. "You… should be careful. They're really addictive."

"Wait, what?" Alfie asked, his mouth dropping open in a ridiculous parody of surprise. Wynn rolled his eyes.

He felt strangely left out, and then felt guilty for feeling that. He was the one who'd practically vanished that summer. He couldn't turn around and be upset that Alfie had gone off and had other experiences without him.

Wynn sat down beside Alfie on the fallen log, taking another sip of his tepid water and handing it to Alfie, who gulped some down gratefully.

"You can finish it," Wynn said, even though he was still desperately thirsty, and Alfie wasted no time in draining the bottle.

Alfie held out the cigarette, and Wynn accepted it. He inhaled, the smoke scraping all the way down his throat and into his lungs, and when he breathed out the smoke seemed to float off to mingle with the heat-haze in the distance.

They sat like that for a while, the heat and the quiet pressing down on them. When they finished that cigarette, Alfie stubbed it out and lit another, but Wynn waved him off when Alfie held it out to him. His throat was sticky with thirst and he felt sluggish from the heat. Sharing a cigarette hadn’t made him feel any closer to Alfie than he already did.

"I'm not mad at you anymore," Alfie said finally.

Wynn glanced at him. Alfie turned towards him, his face open and honest and thoughtful.

"I mean, yeah, I'm mad and if you ever do that to me again, I'm gonna stick you in the eye with a fork, but—I'm not mad at you still, in the cosmic scheme of things." Alfie waved his hand vaguely. "So, you should feel bad, but… you don’t have to feel too bad."

Wynn's crooked grin turned into a full, beaming smile, which turned into a laugh.

"Thanks, Alfie," he said.

There was a long, pregnant pause.

"Your dad?" Alfie said. Wynn winced as the thought of his father crashed into the quiet moment they'd been sharing.

"What about him?"

Alfie took a long, elegant drag from the cigarette, and for a moment he looked older than eighteen. Wynn could see the man he'd become soon, how someday he'd grow into his unbalanced features and his slightly spastic limbs into a person who was self-possessed and lovely.

"Is that why… why you didn't want to see me this summer?" Alfie asked tentatively.

"Oh, Alfie," Wynn sighed. He slid off the log to sit in the dirt, his back resting against it, like his body couldn't hold itself up anymore. He shut his eyes, exhausted now, blanched by heat and grief and love and a hundred other things that felt too big for such a small moment. "I did want to see you."

Alfie seemed to sense that Wynn wasn't finished, and he didn’t respond.

Wynn swallowed hard.

"How do you do that?" Wynn asked quietly.

"Do what?" Alfie asked from above him.

"How do you know this shit about me?" he said. "That my dad—"

"Hates me?" Alfie broke in.

"He doesn't hate you. He doesn't even know you."

"Wynn, we've known each other our whole lives. He knows me."

Wynn looked up at the leaves, and, beyond them, the sky was a sun-bleached, faded blue. His father's words came back to him, grunted to Wynn one evening when the snow was still in icy, dirty clumps on the ground.

You're gonna get yourself into trouble if you keep running around town with that little fag.

The word had been like a burr against his skin—it chafed on at first, but the worst was yet to come, rubbing against the corners of his mind until he lay in bed later that night, staring at the dependable red glow of the numbers on his alarm clock, unable to sleep. And that was when it had hurt, when he'd felt the wound, raw and inflamed and oozing, and hadn't even known why the word scared him so much.

It wasn't, after all, as if his dad thought he was a fag.

And it wasn't like he was one, anyway.

And Alfie…

Well, Wynn didn't know, one way or another. Alfie had never said anything to Wynn about it, but he'd also never expressed any interest in girls at school. But, then again, he'd never really expressed any interest in hanging out with anyone who wasn't Wynn. Alfie preferred to sit in the back corner of his classrooms, doodling in ballpoint pen in his textbooks.

But Alfie—his friend, his partner in crime, his brother—wasn't… that word. That thing.

Wynn cleared his throat.

"What I was going to say," he continued, "was that my dad seemed… I dunno. Happier with me. For working a bunch, and for training, and for—"

For hanging out with the right friends, Wynn thought, but he couldn't say that out loud.

"He seemed proud of me," Wynn said, and he flushed with embarrassment as his voice cracked slightly.

Alfie didn't need Wynn to elaborate—they had known each other their whole lives, and Alfie seen firsthand all the ways Wynn had let his father down. Misspelling "mackerel" and losing his fifth grade spelling bee. Not making varsity freshman year. Getting elected class secretary instead of class president.

There were other, more subtle things, too. The fact that Wynn had never had a steady girlfriend. That Wynn had never been an Eagle Scout, like his dad had. The way Wynn never managed to get the hang of poker, his dad's favorite game.

It had just felt so good to not be a disappointment, even if only for a few months.

Alfie said nothing, and a moment later, Alfie's hand rested lightly on Wynn's shoulder, a question and an offering. Wynn hummed and shut his eyes, letting his head sag against Alfie's thigh. Alfie was wearing shorts, and Wynn's cheek ended up pressed against the hot, smooth skin just above Alfie's knee, where the hair was soft and downy.

Alfie's fingers found their way to Wynn's close-cropped hair, stroking it with such gentleness it made Wynn's heart hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me any of that?" Alfie said softly. "It wouldn't have hurt so much. If I'd known."

"Known what?" Wynn asked.

"That your dad was glad you weren't hanging out with me. That it was making your life easier."

"I didn't say that—" Wynn said quickly.

"Wynn," Alfie said, cutting him off firmly. "I'm not an idiot. I know what people here say about me. I get it. If you'd just told me—"

"I was ashamed," Wynn said, letting more of his weight sag against Alfie's legs. A deep sadness had crept into his bones, and his body felt heavy. "For being so weak. You deserve a better friend than that."

The breeze wasn't quite so furnace hot now that the sun was lower in the sky. Far away, a hawk scribed large, lonely circles against the sky.

"I don't want a better friend," Alfie said, his voice making it clear he thought this concept was patently ridiculous. "I want you."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't," Wynn mumbled, turning his face and burying it against the side of Alfie's thigh, as if Wynn could somehow curl up behind Alfie's IT band and escape from his problems.

Alfie laughed and swatted Wynn's head.

"Okay, now you're just wallowing," Alfie said. "That's my job. Sorry, bud, but there's only room in this friendship for one of us to be a mess at the same time."

Wynn sat up straight again. Though his eyes were dry, he felt the same kind of numb peace that followed a hard cry.

"Sorry," he said, scooting to sit back up on the log beside Alfie. "Somehow you ended up comforting me, but I was supposed to be apologizing to you."

Alfie grinned, wry and full of affection.

"Believe me, the irony is not lost on me," he said. He reached for Wynn's hand, squeezing it once before letting it go. His voice softened. "You're fine, though. I'm sorry. That your dad is such a dick."

Wynn shrugged.

"He's not a dick," he said. "He's just a hard-ass sometimes. Wants the best for me."

There was a pointed silence. Alfie was the master of pointed silences, somehow managing to convey his disapproval or disagreement without ever saying a thing.

"Okay, so maybe he's a dick sometimes," Wynn relented, and Alfie's laugh rang out and away from them, finding nothing to echo against.

Alfie stood up suddenly, turning away from Wynn as he brushed himself off.

"Head out now, yeah?" he said over his shoulder, sounding a little apologetic. "I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die if I don't drink some water soon."

Wynn heaved himself up off the log as Alfie tucked the lunchbox safely away in its hiding place.

"Yeah, I'm ready to go back," Wynn said, though nothing was further from the truth.