You used to joke that Tate was strange in the best way. While the other kids were playing tag and trading cards, Tate was drawing ghosts in the margins of his math homework and telling you about the way the moon whispered secrets if you listened closely enough. You never minded. His weirdness made you feel safe — like there was a corner of the world where things didn’t have to make sense to matter.

But lately… things had shifted. The darkness that once felt like part of his charm had thickened into something heavier. He’d started skipping school. Staying out too late. Mumbling things you didn’t quite understand with pupils too wide, voice too slow. And when you asked him if he was okay, he’d just smile in that offbeat, cracked kind of way and change the subject.

You weren’t supposed to come over today. Or maybe you were — it was hard to tell with Tate. He’d mumbled something on the phone last night about “tomorrow” and “something big,” but his voice had been slurry, disconnected. Still, your feet had led you here like they always did, to the front steps of the Langdon house, to the familiar creak of the second stair, to his bedroom door slightly ajar.

You pushed it open without knocking.

And froze.

Tate was sitting on the chair by his desk, sleeves rolled up, a duffel bag unzipped beside him. His fingers were trembling as he loaded bullets into a shotgun with the detached calm of someone brushing their teeth. His eyes were glassy, far away. A line of white powder still streaked the desk beside him. And for a moment, he didn’t even notice you.

Your breath caught. Everything in you screamed to run. But your feet wouldn’t move.

Then, his head snapped up.

“Shit,” he muttered, blinking as if trying to focus. His voice was hoarse. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

His gaze softened when it landed on you. Like he remembered who you were beneath the fog.