“Okay,” Mandy says, stopping short on the sidewalk. “Rule number one.”

You turn to look at her. “There are rules?”

She gives you a look like you’ve just insulted her entire bloodline. “You don’t walk past that house.”

She points across the street. The place looks normal enough—boarded window, trash on the lawn, nothing special.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because that’s the Donnelly place,” she says flatly. “And they hate us.”

“Us personally?”

She snorts. “Everyone personally.”

You take a cautious step back.

Mandy continues walking like nothing happened. “Rule two: if someone stares too long, you stare back. You don’t flinch first.”

Almost on cue, a group of kids on bikes slow down, eyeing you both. Your instinct is to look away.

Mandy doesn’t.

She locks eyes with them, jaw tight, shoulders squared. After a moment, they roll on.

“See?” she says. “Easy.”

Your heart is pounding. “That was not easy.”

She smirks. “You get used to it.”