The Summer I used to know would’ve retreated into a hidden corner for a while to smooth over the awkwardness of being in the same room with me.

Not this Summer.

She might have flinched when I interrupted her, but she’s not a delicate flower and it strikes me that she does this all day. The Sunny who would go past her brother’s room like a shadow while we played stupid video games is utterly calm, moving briskly on to the next part of our chat, which mainly focuses on my interests.

I don’t tell her what my interests were before I got the job at Killion. Those are not the kinds of things that get you a job.

“This is going to sound stupid,” I say finally.

One corner of her mouth raises in a smile, but it’s not mocking or condescending. “I want to know.”

Something twists at the center of my chest. Maybe I should get up and walk away before I tell her everything—all the things she doesn’t need to know. Instead, I tap my fist against my rib cage and clear my throat. “I’m interested in problem-solving. Analysis. That kind of thing.” In the Army, I’d finally been promoted to a position where I was allowed to attend some low-level mission coordination meetings. If it weren’t for my foot getting blown off, I might be doing that kind of thing now.

“That’s good,” Summer says, her gaze far away. “That’s good to know.” Then she smiles at me, back in my part of the universe, and stands up. “Let me show you the rest of the office.”

I stand up to follow her. “Are we done?”

“I think we’ve gone over all I need to get started on leads.” Her voice is so even, so soothing, that I almost believe she can find me a job that isn’t total shit. It doesn’t sit right, because she’s not supposed to be the one bailing me out, but I follow her out into the hallway.

“Hazel is my next-door office neighbor,” she says easily as we pass the first doorway, and a woman with copper hair gives a wave without missing a beat in her phone call. “She’s great at finding places for veterans to take advantage of the GI Bill, and I don’t know, maybe your feelings about college have changed.”

Summer gives me a mischievous grin and laughs, and they rush back to me—the afternoons Wes and I spent shitting on all the guys from our grade who were going to take the easy way out at some cushy university and graduate to soft lives. We had a better plan. We were going to be heroes first.

Look how that turned out.

Even so, being reminded of my unimpeachably cool teenage years makes me laugh, too. “I’ve grown out of that opinion.”

“That’s great!” she says brightly. “There are lots of options in the city. I’ll be sure to look for placements that will leave you time to attend classes.”

A laugh tumbles out of me. “How long can you keep this up?”

“What?” Summer pauses outside another office.

“Look at me. You can see me sitting in a classroom with all those little—” I stop myself short. “College isn’t in the cards.”

“Oh, stop.” She reaches out and slaps me lightly on the shoulder. It takes my breath away. It’s been years since anyone had the balls to do that.

We’re back at the front door and Summer hands me my coat. When did I take it off? When did she take it? It all happened so…naturally.

“Can you be here tomorrow at eleven? I’ll have a list a mile long of people who can’t wait to hire you.” Her eyes are flecked through with the spring light like sun rays on Harbor Lake.

“Yeah.” I’m supposed to have a shift at Killion, but I’ll reschedule. If the bosses don’t like it, then to hell with them. “I’ll be here.”

Summer smiles up at me and shakes her head a little. “I had no idea it was going to be you.”

I wish it wasn’t me. I wish this was any other circumstance. “Surprise.”

She wrinkles her nose, grinning. “You’re exactly the same.”

Before I can protest, she slips her arms around my waist again, pulling me in tight, with a sigh that breaks me. And because Summer Sullivan is in the business of twisting the knife, she rises up on tiptoes and presses a gentle kiss against my cheek. “See you tomorrow, Day.”

Then I’m outside in the cold, and when I turn around she’s joking with the receptionist. I hold myself back from crashing straight through the glass. I want to be in there, with her, not out here, with reality.

In my boot, my missing left foot cramps, clear and strong, the pain shooting up to my knee.

* * *

I gave Summer a fake address.

I think about it on the train, on the way back to Queens. If she sends me anything in the mail, it’ll never arrive. Better to take that risk than have her know where I’m staying.

It’s a fucking dive.

By the time I get to the decaying third-floor walk-up, my residual limb feels like it’s on fire. It’s sliding around in the ill-fitting socket, the gel lining worn through in places. There’ll be raw skin under there. Hot spots. I’m fumbling for the key, gritting my teeth against the pain, when my roommate opens the door.

He’s drunk. High. Both. Music spills out from behind his back into the hallway, loud and screaming, and a waiflike girl goes past wearing nothing but the remains of a black bra. There are more of them inside. I don’t have to see them to know.

“Naaaaash,” drawls Curtis, who’s holding a fifth of vodka in one hand, dangling it from his fingers like a purse he’s forgotten about. “Where have you been?”

“A meeting.” I push past him into the apartment. Last time I saw Curtis, he was getting out of the Army. One three-year contract and he was done. Not cut out for it. He’s not cut out for hard drugs, either, but that hasn’t stopped him. In the middle of the living room floor, one of Curtis’s friends is coiled around the girl with the bra. There’s a small silver tray on the carpet next to them. “Jesus. It’s two in the afternoon.”

I have to get the fuck out of here.

Curtis’s eyes are sunken into his skull. Turns my stomach. “It's never too early to party, man. Do a couple lines. Relax.”

“I’m good.” I’m clawing my way out of this hellhole. There’s no time to relax.

It’s a piercing pain to sidestep him and when I do he bows to me with a languid laugh. I have to get to my room. I keep it locked when I’m out. Sweat beads on my forehead while I force the key into the lock, push the door open, and drag myself inside.

I have a rickety desk chair, the only furniture aside from my bed, and I sink into it with a sharp exhale and pull my leg out of the prosthesis as gently as I can.

I’m going to need some antiseptic.

Worse, I forgot to shut the door.

Curtis sidles in and leans against the frame. “Nash, buddy.”

“I’m not going out again. You’ve had enough.”

“I came to deliver a message. Don’t shoot.” He raises his hands in the air, spilling vodka on the carpet outside my door.

“What message?”

“I heard something at the bodega today.”

I push myself up from the chair and hop toward the bathroom door. It’s the smallest bathroom on the face of the planet, but the only—only—silver lining of this place is that I have it to myself. “Spit it out.”

“Alexei is looking for you.”

I stop dead at the bathroom door, sweat turned to ice at my temples. “What did you say?”

He repeats it again.

“Fuck.”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Curtis responds. “Don’t worry, bro.” He takes a swig out of the bottle and grins at me, teeth sharp in the dim light of my bedroom. “I didn’t say a thing. He doesn’t know how to find you.” He crosses two fingers and presses them over his heart even as he sways back into the hallway. “I’ll never tell him you’re here.”