This Is How It Ends Read Online Free Page A

shoes, but her whole posture sagged.
    I looked around quickly, letting a few nearby kids pass before I lifted Nat’s chin, forcing her to look at me.
    â€œJeez, Nat,” I said softly. There was a Band-Aid under her left eye. A soft yellow bruise spreading out from it. “What happened?”
    â€œI tripped,” she said, forcing a smile.
    â€œYou tripped? How?”
    â€œThere was a box on the floor in the living room, and I had my arms full. Just didn’t see it. And whap ! Smacked my face pretty good, huh?” She chuckled, the sound brittle. I could picture her standing in front of a bathroom mirror, rehearsing. My stomach clenched as I thought of all the ways it might have actually gone down.
    â€œListen, I’ve gotta run,” she said, pulling her arm away. “I’ll see you later.” Nat spun on her heel and trotted down the steps toward the music room, leaving me to consider the things I knew about how she lived.
    We picked her up almost every weekend, but never went inside her house. Natalie would slip out like she’d been waiting, the door cracked just enough for her to squeeze through.
    I knew what was in there, though. Moose, from work, had taken me up to her place one night when he’d offered me a ride. It would have been a long, cold walk home, so I’d gladly accepted.
    â€œJust gotta run a quick errand on the way,” he’d said as I’d followed him to his car. Moose had waved me to the rear door, and I’d noticed an arm hanging out the passenger window. I recognized the ripped-up surplus jacket. Wynn Bishe. Another Buford High deadbeat who’d graduated—or at least left—a couple years before.
    â€œWhat the fuck’s he doing here?” Wynn asked, tossing a butt on the gravel lot as I slid into the backseat. He shot me a dirty look, the dark wisps on his upper lip twitching—the world’s most pathetic mustache.
    â€œHe needs a ride home,” Moose said.
    Wynn snorted. “What’re you, his babysitter?”
    â€œJeez, Wynn—” Moose said.
    â€œI can walk,” I said, reaching for the handle. But Moose had already started the car and now threw it into reverse.
    â€œForget it.” He glared at Wynn.
    Wynn just shook his head. “Not smart, Moose.”
    I sat stiffly in back, ignoring the cold air whistling in from the open windows. I felt like somebody’s kid brother no one wants around, even though Moose was in my grade. Not that I’d said a word to him since elementary school before he’d started at the restaurant. Moose went to vo-tech most days, and when I did see him, he was usually smoking with the other ’heads two steps off the Buford High curb—not school property. But despite his crappy choice of friends, habits, and death metal T-shirts, Moose was mostly okay.
    We sped down back roads, then up a winding, unlit lane, Wynn smoking and Moose nodding randomly to Zeppelin, tapping his lucky skull-and-crossbones lighter against the wheel. Finally we pulled off the road and parked by a run-down trailer.
    I’d never seen the place—wasn’t friends with Natalie then, and certainly didn’t know she lived there. Wynn got out without a backward glance, but Moose gave me a quick “Wait here; be right back” before jogging across the weedy yard.
    It wasn’t until the last bit of daylight had gone and I’d had way too much time to examine every dented strip of aluminum hanging from the mobile home that I started to worry. The place was pretty remote. I’d seen maybe one other house on the way up, and it didn’t look like somewhere that’d welcome visitors. It was pretty obvious what kind of errand Moose was running, and I kicked myself for being lured along. I was late, my phone was out of juice, and my mom was waiting for me, probably calling work, expecting that I’d have been home for dinner thirty minutes before.
    Moose