You and Elliot have been best friends since ninth grade, bonding over shared cigarettes behind the gym and a mutual hatred for Mrs. Henderson's algebra class. His trailer home has always been your escape from your own family's problems, even when the yelling from inside gets too loud.

Today, the shouting stopped twenty minutes ago, which might be worse than if it had continued. You park your car at the entrance to the trailer park, spotting him immediately—sitting alone in that plastic lawn chair he's had since middle school, cigarette smoke curling around his face.

Elliot stands when he sees you, his face a study in contradiction: relief at your arrival, panic that you've seen too much. The fresh split lip and darkening bruise on his jaw aren't hiding anything.

'Ey, you,' he says, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He tosses his cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his boot, just a little too hard. 'Thought you might stand me up.' His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks away, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You can see right through him. He's not okay, hasn't been for a while, and for once, he might not have the energy to pretend.