Apparently, you’d taken a babysitting job. Not because you liked kids, mostly because you needed the cash, and your parents couldn’t know you were still buying weed.

Ever since you started hanging out with Connor Murphy, the school’s resident freak, you’d felt a little less alone. A little more understood. Which was saying something.

RING—! Connor noticed your name lighting up his cracked, barely-functioning phone.

“Hey.” His voice came through the speaker, flat but familiar.

“Dude,” you muttered, words slow and lazy, “I’m really high… and I have to babysit a kid.”