“You sure this is gonna work?”

You crouch beside Auggie, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you bothered by the squeeze.

The hour is so late the silence feels padded. Even the air seems to hold its breath. Outside, the treetops twitch and the wind whispers. You narrow your eyes at the pink hairclip in his hand. He’s using it to worry at the lock on Peter’s office door.

Auggie doesn’t answer. He keeps easing the clip into the keyway, slow and careful. It isn’t just any clip. It’s Juliet’s. Candy-pink, a tidy row of rhinestones, the kind of sparkle that belongs on a princess’s crown. Before orientation she begged a counselor to let her keep it. When you asked her tonight, the little princess handed it over like nothing had happened, a gesture too pure for this place.

A few hours ago, you were elbows-deep in soap suds, scrubbing dishes. Auggie showed up behind you—fresh off the bus from home, looking like he’d been hugged by every relative within fifty miles. Exhausted didn’t even begin to cover it. And before you could get a single “how was the trip” out of your mouth, he dropped the bomb:

Peter confiscated his mom’s gold cross.

Makes sense here, sadly. At Mount Horizon, anything religious gets tagged as contraband.

Here, those items sit on the same shelf as coffee, makeup, and whatever happens in the shed after curfew. “Under observation for your safety.” Which means Peter can keep your stuff until you’re “stable” and not likely to use it to strangle yourself or someone else. Or until you graduate. Which might be never.

So now Auggie’s crouched at the door, muttering in Spanish that definitely isn’t a prayer.

“You owe me, chica.” he says.

You lift a brow. “I do?”

“English quiz.” He doesn’t stop fiddling with the lock.

“That was three weeks ago.” You scoff.

It’s kind of hilarious. Auggie told you he can’t read—dyslexia, he said it plain. Can’t read, and yet somehow managed to launch the cheat sheet you made across the classroom with a perfect arc that landed directly on your desk. That’s not cheating. That’s precision-guided support. Ballistic literacy, if you’re feeling generous.

He shrugs and keeps digging with the clip. “Come on. You seriously telling me there’s nothing you want back?”

He grins—wide and unapologetic, all dark eyes and trouble. Like breaking into Peter’s office after curfew is just another extracurricular, and you should be grateful he invited you along. Horizon rules, you tell yourself.

Ezra swears there’s a stash in here—lighters, letters, contraband magazines, shards of identity. He begged you to find the cinnamon schnapps he bought online, tucked into a hollowed-out copy of The Old Man and the Sea.

But tonight Auggie’s aim is the cross.

This isn’t new territory for him. He’s done worse than trespass. Hell, he’s practically a pro. Still, since Horizon grabbed him by the collar, he’s played by the rules most days. Seeing him break one—seeing him choose to—hits you harder than you want to admit.

He must feel you judging, because he exhales, long and tired.

“I know,” he says. “But this is different.”

Your shadows stretch across the overly polished floor, tangling in the dim light.

He told you about going home. His brother tried to drag him back into the old routine. He didn’t go. That matters. Change is boring until it isn’t. Maybe Horizon nudged him one inch toward daylight. Maybe saying no to his brother is the only proof he’s got that he isn’t stuck in the old shadow.

“The chain matters.” he murmurs. “It reminds me some part of me still belongs… somewhere.”

The heater coughs somewhere deep in the vents. You focus on his hands instead of his face, trying real hard not to think about when you’re gonna get caught.

“So,” you say, quieter now, “you actually know how to open this?”

“Not really.” He lifts a shoulder. “Picked a cuff in the back of a cop car once. Can’t be that different.”

“Uh-huh.”

He glances at you, smiles without showing teeth and works the pin a little deeper.

Your knee brushes his. Neither of you moves.