I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes and send Ivy and G-mo a text asking them to meet me in the park, and I get instant replies saying they’ll see me there.

The park is really just a fenced-in sandbox with a basketball court around the block from Sojo High. There’s a convenience store across the street, so it’s also the place where the employees take their smoke breaks. The park has an illustrious history. First, it’s where Ivy was conceived. Second, it’s where a famous graffiti artist once took his life after going through a difficult divorce—one that he really wasn’t prepared for since he was an alleged hard-core nine-to-fiver who spent too much time drinking and gambling in alleyways. And finally, it’s also where I met Ivy and G-mo. So, all this is to say that the park is our place.

As I pedal, I replay Dad’s most recent letter in my mind, because it is essential for me to not have a nervous breakdown, and the wind knocks me into gear, pushing me faster along the holey sidewalk, while the sun bakes me to a crisp, my T-shirt sticking to my back like papier-mâché paste.

My mind goes blank as I approach the park, everything around me starting to spin.

I hop off my bike quick, slamming it into a rusty bench, my heart ringing in my ears, and a couple minutes later I see G-mo and Ivy biking and skating around the corner, panting, the sun illuminating the sides of their faces enough for me to see their troubled expressions, like they, too, share my guilt and shame and anxiety.

They crash their wheels into the same rusty bench and then attack me with questions, their eyes watery and heavy. It gets harder and harder to breathe.

“Are you really sure he’s missing?” G-mo says, his forehead wrinkled.

“What would you call it?” I say, stale-faced, pacing in a slow and steady circle.

Ivy slaps G-mo on the shoulder. “Nigga, missing is missing.”

“We have to find him,” I say.

Ivy straightens. “Where do we look first?”

“We have to go back to the Pic-A-Rag,” I answer.

The three of us pedal and skate as fast as we can. The whole time, my chest feels like thick vines are twisting and tangling inside.

When we make it make to the abandoned Pic-A-Rag building, there’s yellow caution tape everywhere, glass littering the ground, the empty windows boarded up, a few bullet holes mazing the outside like the graffiti in the city.

I hop off my bike, allowing it to fall to the ground, watching people walk up and down in front of the building as if this is a normal scene.

I look around, checking for cops. “All right, let’s go in,” I say, feeling sourness in my stomach.

“Are you insane?” G-mo hisses. “That’s illegal, Marvin.”

“Illegal?” My brother is fucking missing, and he’s over here talking about some illegal.

“This is a damn crime scene. Look!” He points at the area around us.

“You know what? Fine. Just stay here and be the lookout. Ivy and I will go inside.”

Ivy cuts him some side-eye while shaking her head. G-mo shrugs.

The two of us go underneath the caution tape and walk into the building, glass cracking and wooden boards splintering beneath our shoes. The inside is exactly how I thought it would look: like a tornado came through and shook everything. Tables flipped upside down, red Solo cups and beer bottles littering the floor, shoes that were left behind. I wander around, careful not to mess up the crime scene and not to put any of my fingerprints on anything. My heart thumps louder, harder.

Only a little natural light from outside shines in through some of the cracks in the walls around us. Pushing through upside-down tables, through the rubble, through the dust, I make my way to the wall where I saw Johntae threatening Tyler. I place my hand on it, running my fingers across the blue paint, cold against cold.

“Nothing over here,” I say, replaying the memory from last night so clearly in my mind. I can feel my hands shaking as I step back, taking deep breaths to keep from bursting into flames.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see. Ghosts. Dead bodies. A wounded Tyler with his arms outstretched, waiting for me to save him. But the Pic-A-Rag is empty.

Ivy grabs me by the shoulders. “We’re going to find him, Marvin. He may not be here, but he’s somewhere.” She gives me this warm grin, but nothing can calm my nerves.

I swallow hard, blinking back tears, as we meet up with G-mo, empty-handed and back at square one. I want so desperately to believe what Ivy said, but something doesn’t feel right.

G-mo and I hop on our bikes and Ivy gets on her skateboard, and we ride down the block a little bit, going toward G-mo’s apartment, stopping by places I know Tyler likes to hang around, even looking in alleyways and on the basketball court and on corners where I’ve seen him before, but he’s nowhere to be found.

The sidewalk is narrow, so we’re riding single file. Ivy squeezes in on one side of me. “Let’s stop at G-mo’s and wait for a bit. He’s going to turn up, Marvin.” She gives me a small smile.

Time is slipping past and I can’t waste any of it, so I agree to Ivy’s plan.

Stepping into G-mo’s place, I get a huge waft of spices. His apartment is completely empty, and it feels almost lifeless, even though the walls are plastered with teapots with the Colombian flag painted on them and portraits of the Virgin. We rush up the stairs to G-mo’s room in a single-file line, still unsure of what to make of the last two hours of our lives.

And stepping foot inside his room, I burst out in all of my frustration, crashing onto G-mo’s New Kids on the Block–themed bedspread, which smells like a blend of Cheetos and Axe cologne. “WHAT. THE. HOLY. FUCK?”

Once, back in early middle school, my dad got a little too wasted and beat Tyler and me with a broomstick for talking back. But I’ve never hurt all over—inside and out—as much as I do right now.

G-mo turns on an episode of A Different World. It’s the one where a hurricane comes and destroys their entire campus, and Ron and Freddie end up confronting their differences while trapped together. Well, there’s a hurricane inside me right now, and I’m really wishing Ron and Freddie could be Tyler and me.

We gotta keep looking for Tyler, I think to myself. Waiting isn’t doing anything for anyone.

I feel beat-up, bruised, and broken down inside. And not even my music or rewatching the Tupac episode of A Different World could help me now. They’re like Band-Aids that have been soaked too much to actually do anything anymore.

Suddenly, my phone blasts a different ringtone. Anonymous caller. “Someone’s calling,” I yell in a high voice, inching off the bed quickly, like a fish trying to flop back into water from the shore. My heart flutters. It could be Tyler.

“What?” Ivy says.

“Who is it?” G-mo asks.

I put the phone on speaker and answer.

“Hello?” My voice is scratchy and rough.

There’s a brief cough and then the voice speaks. “Aye-yo! Marv-Marv. It’s your boy, Johntae.” His voice sounds all willful and content, like he’s happy to be where he is.

“Johntae?” My chest feels heavier.

“Homie! How you feeling? How you feeling?!”

“Terrible,” I mutter. “I’m in a very dark place right now.”

“Well, turn on the light.”

“Johntae, I’m not in the mood for jokes, and I’m not even sure why you are. You’re in fucking jail.”

“Chill out, fam. What’s gotten into your Wheaties this morning? When you’ve got a heart of darkness like me, jail isn’t the worst place to be. I think jail is a lot nicer than you prolly think. A lot easier than being out there, trying to survive on the streets.”

“You sound insane,” I tell him.

“You’re just as sane or insane as I am, fam.”

“No. No. No, that’s not fucking relevant,” I say, shaking my head. “Tyler is missing.” I clench my eyes.

“Missing?” His voice is full yet emotionless. “I don’t know nothing about that. I was calling to see if Tyler left you the cornflakes for me? That’s all I’m talking about, you dig?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Tyler is missing. I repeat, Tyler is missing. And I believe you had something to do with it. Where is he?”

Johntae laughs his laugh. “I thought you were fucking with me? Oh. God. That’s not good. You serious right now, thug?”

“I solemnly swear. He’s legit gone.” I grind my teeth. “We just went back to the old Pic-A-Rag market. It’s all boarded up and empty.”

“Maybe someone’s already given him the easy way out.”

“The easy way out?” I ask.

“A bullet to the head,” Johntae says, hurt and actual emotion finally evident in his voice for the first time.

The possibility hits me. My heart feels like it’s pounding its way right out of me.

NO. NO. NO.

WHAT. THE. FOR REAL. FUCK.

THAT CAN’T BE REAL. THAT CAN’T HAPPEN.

My thoughts grab me by the neck and keep me in a chokehold, and I can’t breathe, my chest tightening. I go completely silent, grab the phone tighter, hear the metal case make a crackling sound.

And I guess he hears my sniffling as I wipe the wetness from my eyes, because he goes, “Aye, are you fucking crying right now? Man, that shit ain’t gon’ do nothing right now! And if you looking for comfort, I ain’t got none to give.”

I don’t say anything back. I can’t say anything, like it’s physically impossible to command words to come out of my mouth.

“Listen. I called you, Marv, because I know you’ll listen and understand and, apparently now, will do whatever is necessary to get your brother back.”

“Yeah?”

“I need your help,” Johntae says slowly. “I’ve got a thousand-dollar bail. If you can get me out of here, I can help you get Tyler back.”

I say, “Deal,” without hesitation. I barely have a buck to my name, but I don’t care. I’ll do anything to have my brother back.

“Go to one-oh-eight Sycamore Lane and talk to my girl. Her name’s Faith. She’ll help you with bail money.”

When I click off from Johntae, I feel like I’m split into bits. Twins are like synonyms that know each other through and through, like the moon complements the stars through a life sentence, like a set of infinite entities who’ve seen the world together, experienced its pain and oppression, but I can’t help but feel, in this moment, like my world is ending over and over again, like time moves backward, like the world flashes between black and white and grainy and clear.

I can’t believe Tyler chose to hang out with Johntae and his crew and got onto this path. Mama used to say that a strong man isn’t the same as a good one. That a good man is hard to find because the strong ones usually turn bad. She said, “Good ones are good because they set their own paths and never follow anyone else.” I wonder where Tyler fits in on her “good man” scale.

I pause a while longer, thinking about the times I saw Tyler with Johntae, and how I told myself what I wanted to hear, focusing my attention on other things—selfish things. Maybe I’m the reason Tyler is missing. Maybe I deserve this—all my worries scarring me.

The air is stale. Ivy’s and G-mo’s eyes meet mine.

“I know exactly where Sycamore is,” Ivy says.

The three of us storm up and head out.

When we make it to 108 Sycamore Lane, I end up walking to the shabby wooden door with cracks and a floor mat that says WELCOME, LEAVE THE DRAMA OUTSIDE, and I knock.

I wait, and the entire time I look back at G-mo and Ivy, who stand there with scared and confused faces. All that’s running through my head is that Tyler is missing and I have to bail out a drug dealer so he can help me find my brother.

And a moment later, a girl peeks her head through a crack in the door, a shower cap in hand.

It’s the girl from the party. Faith.

She has her hair tied back in a single braided ponytail and curiosity on her face. She looks and smells sweet, and one waft of her makes me lose my words.

Her forehead wrinkles. “Can I help you?” I see her dark brown eyes. Dark brown, like umber.

Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. His name echoes in my head.

I put my arm behind my head and force myself to say, “Do—do you know Johntae?” And I can’t fucking believe I say doo-doo. And I can’t believe I ask her this stupid question. Of course she knows him.

Her smile fades, and then there’s a frown and an evil look in her eyes. “Why?” she asks. “Who wants to know?”

“Johntae sent me here to, uh, get money for his bail.”

“Well, you tell that no-good piece of shit that I said to fuck off next time you talk to him. Say it exactly like that.” And then she slams the door in my face.

Feeling my heart pick up speed, I pause and look back at Ivy and G-mo, who both just shrug. Then I knock again, telling myself to get it together as the door opens once more, and Faith stands there.

“Tyler Johnson,” I say slowly, so I don’t stutter. “Have you seen him?”

“No. I don’t know him.”

“He’s my twin brother and he’s missing, and I need help finding him. Please. He was at Johntae’s party. You had to have seen him. Please.” My voice rises.

“I don’t know him,” she repeats, even firmer than before, craning her neck sideways. “And I don’t know where he is.”

“Johntae knows things a lot of people don’t, like the secrets of Sterling Point and hideouts that Tyler never told me about.” I stop to take a breath, wanting to keep going, but the words dam up in my throat.

I don’t think she believes me. “Please,” I say firmly. Don’t start crying, I command myself.

She exhales, licking her lips, and I watch her face change, like she realizes my desperation. She swings the door open all the way. “And why did you come here?” she breathes out over my face, smelling like she’s just eaten fresh pineapple.

“I need the bail money for Johntae so he can tell me where my brother is. I don’t have it.”

I can feel the blood rushing in my ears while I wait for her to say something back—anything.

I know she wants to help me. I can tell by the look in her eyes.

But all she says is “I’m sorry, I can’t,” before shutting the door again and locking it.

Defeated, I walk down the sidewalk a few blocks with G-mo and Ivy, both of them telling me we’ll figure out another way to get the bail money to find Tyler, making lefts and rights when needed, taking in the hideous sight that is my origin story. The cracked sidewalks are like ripped paper bags. And everything, to me, just looks like a mound of trash.