When I looked over at him, he was leaning against his fist with a finger across his lips. What was he trying to hide? A smile? Raking a hand through his hair, he opened his door, and the sounds of cheers and screaming rushed in like water into a sinking boat. Looking down at his boots, he shook his head. “Waking the demon. . . ..” he mumbled to himself, and I wasn’t sure what he meant. Before he climbed out, he looked over at me again through hooded lids. “Thank you, Tate,” he whispered. The hair on my neck stood up, and my hands shook. He hadn’t called me “Tate” since we were fourteen. Not
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