The first time Jay Lawson begged to go home, he was locked in a concrete box in the middle of the Arizona desert, pounding on a steel door and promising a drill sergeant he’d make his bed every single day for the rest of his life.

Forty-eight hours earlier, he’d been complaining that living with his mom in suburban California was basically a prison.

He had no idea what prison felt like. Yet.

“Hey, Jay, dinner’s gonna be ready in ten—”

His bedroom door flew open so hard a pile of hoodies slumped off the chair.

His mom froze in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the room like a TSA scanner at LAX. There were dirty socks on top of textbooks. A half-eaten bag of chips balanced on his pillow. Candy wrappers had migrated under his sheets like they were trying to escape.

“What,” she said, very slowly, “did I tell you about eating junk food before dinner?”

Jay paused with a fistful of chips halfway to his mouth. “Uh…” He stalled. “That I should… savor it?”

“Try again.”

“That I shouldn’t?”

“Correct.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what did I tell you about cleaning your room? This looks like a pigsty. I told you to clean it two days ago. You’ve got clothes everywhere, wrappers in this bed, it looks like a pack of wild dogs slept in here.”

“It’s my room,” he muttered. “It’s not like anyone else is gonna see it.”

“This is my house,” she shot back. “My mortgage. My rules. I want this room spotless by the time dinner’s on the table. And put on a clean shirt. Brian is coming over, and I want you on your best behavior, young man.”

He groaned. “Again? You just had him over.”

“Yes, again. And don’t even think about playing any pranks. The last guy didn’t even come back.”

“Good,” Jay said under his breath. “Guess he failed the vibe check.”

“Jay,” she warned.

“What? It’s not my fault people can’t handle a harmless prank. I de-fanged the tarantula, that was practically a community service.”

“Putting a big, hairy spider in someone’s car is not ‘harmless.’” She pinched the bridge of her nose like she was holding in a scream. “I’m serious. You are walking on thin ice. Between your pranks, your grades, and this room, you need to get your act together. This is your last warning. Or there will be consequences. Now get moving.”

She shut the door before he could answer.

Jay popped the chips into his mouth anyway.

He flopped back on his unmade bed, stared at the cracked ceiling, and muttered, “She always says that.”

His phone buzzed against his leg. He fished it out of a nest of hoodies and hit answer.

Marco’s face appeared, grainy and familiar. “Yo. What’s the damage this time?”

“Usual,” Jay said, panning his camera across the chaos. “Apparently my room is a ‘biohazard.’”

“Facts,” Marco said. “You heard what my mom did when my grades tanked? She sent me to East Point.”

“East what?”

“East Point Academy, bro.” Marco leaned back, like he was settling into a good story. “Like a military school in Arizona or something. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. My cousin went there first. No parents. You stay up, play video games, go on weekend trips. Feels like summer camp all year.”

No parents. Video games. Trips.

Jay’s ears perked up like a dog hearing the word “walk.”

“So you’re telling me there’s a place where I don’t have a mom barging into my room, and instead of yelling about socks she lets strangers teach me discipline?”

“That’s kind of the idea,” Marco said. “He says the food sucks, but the freedom? Chef’s kiss.”

Jay smirked. “Sounds way better than living with the Room Police. Trust me, the sooner I get out of this place, the better.”

From downstairs, his mom called, “Clean shirt! Now!”

“Speaking of the law,” Jay muttered. “Gotta go. Pray for me if she serves Brussels sprouts.”

He shoved his phone in his pocket, grabbed the least-wrinkled t-shirt off his chair, sniffed it, decided it was acceptable for human contact, and pulled it on.

By the time he hit the dining room, the smell of lasagna had already forgiven a lot of things.

Brian sat at the table, California-casual in a polo and a smile that tried a little too hard. “Hey, Jay. Good to see you, man.”

“Yeah,” Jay said. “You too.”

His mom floated around with plates, all hospitality. “So, Brian is assistant ticket manager for the Lakers,” she said, like she was announcing a Nobel Prize winner. “Isn’t that cool?”

Jay shrugged, stabbing into his lasagna. “Sure.”

“So, Jay,” Brian tried again, “you a sports fan? Maybe I can take you to Crypto.com Arena sometime. Catch a game?”

“He loves the Lakers,” his mom said. “Right, honey?”

“I’m busy,” Jay said without looking up. “But thanks.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to slice cheese, then pasted on a smile. “Jay, could you grab the cheesecake from the fridge for dessert? I cut it into four slices.”

“Sure,” Jay said.

If the lasagna had forgiven a lot, the cheesecake was about to avenge all of it.

He pulled the pan from the fridge, careful not to disturb the one slice he’d doctored earlier in the afternoon. A healthy sprinkle of ghost pepper flakes, hidden under a swirl of white frosting. Totally invisible. Totally evil.

He plated the slices and took his time deciding who got which.

Brian got the special one.

Back at the table, he slid the plates around like a magician dealing cards.

“Thanks, Jay,” Brian said. “This looks great.”

“You’re welcome,” Jay said, doing everything in his power not to grin.

“So,” his mom said brightly, “tell the boys that funny story about the concession stand, the one with the nachos—”

“Oh yeah,” Brian said, lifting a big bite of cheesecake toward his mouth. “So last week this fan came up and—”

He sank his fork into the slice, not noticing the tiny red sparkles.

Jay held his breath.

Brian took a bite.

One beat. Two.

He blinked.

“Everything okay?” his mom asked.

Brian’s face shifted from normal to confused to catastrophic. He coughed once, hard. His eyes watered. He grabbed his water glass and chugged it like a marathon runner at the finish line.

“Oh my gosh!” his mom gasped. “Are you all right? Do you not like it? I swear I used less sugar this time—”

“It’s not the sugar,” he wheezed. “It’s—” He coughed again. “Spicy.”

“Spicy?” She stared at the cake. “I didn’t put any—”

“Here,” Jay said helpfully, pushing the plate closer. “Have some more. It’s an acquired taste.”

Brian looked at him. Jay couldn’t hold back anymore. He started laughing.

His mom’s expression changed. The concern drained out, replaced with something colder.

“Jay,” she said slowly. “What did you do.”

He wiped a tear of laughter from his cheek. “Relax, it’s just a little hot pepper. He’s fine. It’s not like he’s allergic or anything.”

“Do you have any idea,” she said, shaking, “how immature that is? How disrespectful? How embarrassing?”

“It was a little funny,” he offered.

“No,” she snapped. “It was not. I told you I wanted you on your best behavior tonight. I told you not to do any pranks. And what do you do? You blatantly disobey me. Again.”

“He’s fine,” Jay repeated. “You can literally see he’s alive.”

“I can’t keep doing this.” She pushed back from the table, knuckles white. “It’s the same thing over and over. I make rules. You break them. I ground you. You shrug. So let’s skip the part where you ask how long you’re grounded for.”

“Okay, but, just for scheduling purposes,” he said, leaning back, “is this like a week, a month? I gotta know whether to cancel Friday.”

“Neither,” she said.

He paused. “Two months? Seriously? That’s—”

“I am done trying to discipline you myself,” she said, voice shaking but steady. “If you won’t listen to me, you’re going to have to go learn to listen somewhere else. You’ve left me no choice, Jay. I’m sending you to East Point.”

The name dropped into the room like a bomb.

His brain took a second to connect the dots. East Point. Marco’s cousin. Arizona. Video games. Freedom.

“Wait, you’re actually doing it?” he said. “Like, real East Point? Yes. Perfect. Thank you.”

Her forehead creased. “You think this is going to be a vacation?”

“I mean,” he said, “isn’t that what I just said, like, five seconds ago? No parents, summer camp vibes, me living my best life? You should be careful what you wish for, Mom. When I become a billionaire off my YouTube prank channel, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You should be careful what you wish for,” she shot back. “The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”

“Whatever,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll be in my room packing. The sooner I leave, the better.”

He bounded up the stairs like he’d just won a trip on a game show.

Downstairs, Brian finally stopped coughing long enough to look at Jay’s mom. “Are you sure about this?”

She stared at the cheesecake, at the fork, at the empty doorway.

“No,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

East Point Academy was not a summer camp.

It looked like a cross between a high school and an army base, dropped into the dust of the American Southwest. The sign out front was painted red, white, and blue, with a bald eagle glaring down at every minivan that pulled up.

“This is the boys’ quarters,” the admissions officer said, leading them into a long, echoing barracks. “We pride ourselves on order and discipline.”

Rows of metal bunk beds lined the walls, each one made with hospital corners sharp enough to slice fingers. Boots were lined up beneath them, toes perfectly aligned. Not a poster or video game controller in sight.

“Wow,” Jay’s mom said. “Everyone’s so quiet. And… well-behaved.”

“At East Point, we instill the correct values,” the officer said.

Is that my bed? Jay thought, eyeing a bottom bunk near the middle.

“Yes,” the man said, as if he’d read his mind. “You’ll be there. Trunk at the foot, personal effects inside. Cadet Lawson, right?”

“Yeah,” Jay said, then corrected himself. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The man nodded once, then checked his clipboard. “Sergeant Stokes will take it from here.”

Stokes arrived like a walking shout. His uniform was pressed so tight the seams looked angry. His buzz cut gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“You Lawson?” he barked.

“Yes, sir,” Jay said, a little more carefully.

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated louder.

“You are on my turf now,” Stokes said. “You follow my rules. You breathe when I tell you to breathe. You sleep when I tell you to sleep. You understand me, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jay’s mom squeezed his shoulder. “I need to get going,” she said softly. “I’ll visit this weekend, okay? Did you remember your sleeping pills?”

“Mom,” he hissed. “We don’t say that in front of the army.”

“Jay,” she whispered, ignoring him. “Text me if they let you. I love you.”

“Love you too,” he muttered.

She hugged him hard, like she wanted to fold him back into herself, then turned and left.

The door closed behind her with a heavy thud.

“So,” a voice said from the bunk across from him. “You the cheesecake kid?”

Jay looked up. A skinny guy with curly hair and an X-Men comic in his hands raised an eyebrow.

“News travels fast,” Jay said. “I’m Jay.”

“Flex,” the kid said. “And yeah, Stokes mentioned you. He did not sound excited.”

“What’s the big deal?” Jay said, dropping onto his mattress. “We’re finally free of our parents, right? No moms hovering, no chores. No parents, no rules.”

Flex blinked. “You think that’s what this is?”

“Isn’t it?” Jay gestured around. “A bunch of boys, no parents, everyone chilling—”

“Quiet time at 2000,” Flex said. “Lights out at 2100. Stokes doesn’t play.”

“In English?” Jay asked.

“No talking after eight,” Flex said. “In bed by nine.”

Jay laughed. “Bro. Even my mom lets me stay up till ten on school nights.”

Flex shut his comic and slid it under his pillow. “You’ll see.”

That night, when the clock on the wall ticked to 8:00, Stokes did a walk-through. He glowered at any kid whose mouth was open.

At 8:05, the room was so quiet Jay could hear his own heartbeat.

At 8:10, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“We’re really just gonna sit here and read?” he whispered to Flex. “Like it’s 1952?”

Flex hissed, “Shhh.”

“We don’t have parents here,” Jay said. “This is our chance to live. No parents, no rules.”

“That’s not how it works,” Flex whispered.

But Jay was already unzipping his duffel.

He pulled out the Bluetooth speaker he’d smuggled in and tucked under his clothes. “Watch this,” he said.

He hit play.

Bass exploded through the barracks. A trap beat shook the metal bed frames. Heads shot up all down the row. One kid’s jaw dropped. Another started bobbing his head despite himself.

“Jay,” Flex whispered, panicked. “Turn it off. Stokes will—”

The door slammed open.

“Cadet Lawson!” Stokes thundered. “What in the United States of America do you think you’re doing?”

Jay froze, caught mid-dance move. “Uh… morale boost?”

“Drop and give me twenty.”

“Twenty what?”

“Push-ups, you smart-aleck.” Stokes glared. “Make it forty.”

Jay dropped to the floor. His arms started shaking at twelve. By twenty-three he thought his shoulders might burst into flames.

“You will address me as sir,” Stokes barked.

“Yes, sir,” Jay gasped.

“As for the rest of you,” Stokes shouted to the room, “let this be your reminder. My rules are not suggestions. Lights out means silence. Anyone even thinks about laughing, you’ll be joining Lawson on latrine duty. Dismissed.”

The lights snapped off. Darkness swallowed the rows.

“This does not feel like summer camp,” Jay whispered into his pillow.

At 5:59 a.m., he found out summer camp didn’t come with air horns, either.

“Cadet Thompson,” Stokes snapped. “Fetch me the horn.”

A second later, a blast of sound detonated inches from Jay’s head. He fell out of bed, blanket tangled around his legs.

“Lawson,” Stokes boomed, “do you see the state of this rack?”

Jay squinted at the twisted sheets. “I mean, I’ve seen worse. At home—”

“You are not at home,” Stokes said. “You are at East Point Academy. You think you’re above everyone else? You’re not. You are a cockroach I will stomp out with my boot if necessary. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Jay muttered.

“I said, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“What is the punishment for failing bed inspection?” Stokes barked.

“Latrine duty, sir,” the boys replied in unison.

“Correct. Cadet Lawson will be on latrine duty for the rest of the day. You are not to engage with him until he has been dismissed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jay spent the morning elbow-deep in toilet bowls.

By lunchtime, his knees hurt, his back hurt, and he had a new appreciation for janitors across the United States.

“You missed a spot,” a voice called from the stall behind him.

He looked up. On the back of the toilet tank, someone had left a small, badly drawn smiley face in permanent marker.

Above it, in shaky letters: Left a present in the stall for you, Lawson.

He sighed. “Very funny.”

“Cadet Lawson,” Stokes barked from the doorway. “You still have the staff bathroom to get to before lunch.”

“I’m trying as hard as I can, sir,” Jay said. “I… I need more cleaning supplies.”

“Everything you need is in the facility closet, Cadet.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Move. We don’t have all day.”

Later, in the mess hall, he nudged a gray lump on his tray with his fork. It jiggled.

“What even is this?” he whispered to Flex.

“Mystery meatloaf,” Flex said. “Looks like dog food. Tastes like it. But better.”

“If I wanted to clean toilets and eat prison food,” Jay muttered, “I could’ve stayed home and gone to public school.”

“I tried to warn you,” Flex said. “Stokes doesn’t play.”

“What is that guy’s problem?” Jay asked. “Someone needs to take him down a notch.”

“Many have tried,” Flex said darkly. “Few have survived.”

Jay rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like a horror movie.”

“It kind of is,” Flex said. “You see Jerry over there?”

He nodded toward a kid sitting alone, staring into space instead of at his food.

“That’s ‘Crazy Jerry.’ Used to be Jerry the Joker,” Flex said. “Class clown. Always cracking jokes. Always trying to bend the rules. A lot like you.”

“Okay, rude,” Jay said.

“He tried to pull a big prank on Stokes for April Fools’,” Flex continued. “Long story short, he miscalculated. Got sent to the Hole.”

“The Hole,” Jay repeated. “Everyone keeps bringing that up like it’s Voldemort.”

“Solitary confinement,” Flex said. “Concrete room behind the gym. No window. No phone. No nothing. Legend says anyone who survives never comes back the same. Some kids don’t come back at all—they transfer out, or their parents pull them. Some… we never hear about.”

“That’s just an urban myth,” Jay scoffed, even though his stomach flipped. “Something Stokes made up to scare you all into marching like toy soldiers.”

“Maybe,” Flex said. “All I know is I’m not trying to find out.”

“Unfortunately for him,” Jay said, stabbing his meatloaf, “I’m not that easy to scare.”

“What are you gonna do?” Flex asked.

“I’m going to show him he finally met his match,” Jay said. “And you’re going to help me.”

Flex groaned. “I really need new friends.”

The first prank was small.

A test.

He had just finished scrubbing the urinals in the staff bathroom when inspiration struck. A roll of plastic wrap in the supply closet. A few quick stretches. A clear, tight sheet over the bowl.

He stepped back and admired his work.

“What are you smiling about?” Stokes demanded an hour later, bursting into the barracks.

“Nothing, sir,” Jay said innocently.

“Nothing?” Stokes’ eyes flashed. “Then maybe you can explain this.”

He held up a pair of soaked uniform pants, dripping onto the floor.

“Who put plastic wrap on the urinal in the staff bathroom?” he roared. “Who thinks they’re funny?”

The boys stayed silent.

His gaze locked onto Jay.

“You,” he snapped. “Front and center.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Jay said, heart pounding.

“That’s it,” Stokes growled. “You want to act like a comedian, Lawson? I’ll show you how we deal with comedians around here. You’re going to learn what real consequences feel like. I am sending you—”

“Sergeant Stokes?”

A woman’s voice cut through the tension. Another staff member stepped into the room—Ms. Jensen, the counselor. “Is there a problem?”

“Cadet Lawson continues to act out of turn,” Stokes said. “He just vandalized the staff restroom. Second offense.”

“May I ask what exactly he did?” Ms. Jensen said.

“He put plastic wrap on the urinal,” Stokes snapped. “Like a… prank.”

Ms. Jensen’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah. The classic.”

“This is not funny,” Stokes said.

“Of course not,” she agreed quickly. “But since Cadet Lawson is a new student and likely didn’t know about East Point’s zero-tolerance policy for pranks, perhaps this could be treated as a first offense? Instead of… anything more severe.”

Stokes ground his teeth. “And what would you recommend?”

“I know the kitchen needs another hand for mess duty this week,” she said. “I can assign him.”

Stokes glared at Jay. “Fine. But I have my eye on you, Lawson. Cross me again, and you will wish you were never born.”

It was supposed to scare him straight.

It just made the next idea bigger.

“Bro,” Jay said that night in the dark, “what even is this?” He poked at the glop on his plate in his memory. “Dog food. Inedible. Everything here is inedible.”

“If you wanted to clean dishes and hate dinner,” Flex said from the bunk above, “you’re right, you could have stayed home.”

“Exactly,” Jay said. “So what’s even the point of being here? I might as well at least leave my mark.”

“Ah, yes,” Flex said. “The mark of someone who wants to die.”

Jay smirked in the dark. “You said they call Jerry ‘Crazy Jerry’ now?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool,” Jay said. “Let’s give Stokes a taste of crazy.”

The plan required timing, access, and a little bit of luck.

The timing: Stokes did a weekly “character talk” where he brought all the cadets into the assembly room and lectured them about honor, duty, and not chewing gum.

The access: His laptop, hooked to the projector on his desk.

The luck: Stokes forgetting to log out.

Jay waited.

He timed his request to refill the cleaning supplies perfectly. While Stokes yelled at a younger kid for leaving his boots crooked, Jay slipped into the office.

The laptop hummed on the desk. An American flag desktop wallpaper filled the screen.

Jay plugged in a USB drive he’d “borrowed” from the library. On it was a single, glorious file: a photo of Stokes he’d secretly snapped earlier, blown up on his phone and edited within an inch of its life. Cartoon horns. Red pitchfork. Text across the bottom: EAST POINT DEVIL.

He swapped the desktop image for his creation. Then, for good measure, he set it as the slide for the next presentation.

By the time he slid back out, heart hammering, Stokes was turning away from the boots.

If the drill sergeant noticed the sheen of sweat on Jay’s forehead, he didn’t comment.

The next afternoon, the whole school filed into the assembly room.

Stokes stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, buzzing with authority.

“Character,” he began, “is what you do when no one is watching.”

Jay almost laughed out loud at the irony.

Stokes turned to the laptop, clicked on the file, and hit “present.”

For one glorious second, nothing happened.

Then the projector screen flared to life.

A ten-foot-tall version of Stokes’s face glared down at the room, bright red horns sticking out of his buzz cut, a pitchfork floating in his hand like a prop from a Halloween store.

Someone choked.

The sound turned into a snort, then a laugh, then a wave of laughter breaking over the room. Even Jerry blinked, then let out an involuntary bark of amusement.

Stokes turned in slow motion.

His eyes went up to the screen.

His jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck popped.

Then he turned back to the crowd.

His gaze found Jay like heat-seeking radar.

“Cadet Lawson,” he said, voice quiet in that terrifying way adults get right before they explode. “Front and center.”

Jay walked down the aisle, legs turning to stone.

“Care to explain this?” Stokes said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

“It was just a prank,” Jay said. “Sir.”

“Just a prank,” Stokes repeated. “On your commanding officer. In front of your entire unit.”

He stepped closer until Jay could see the tiny scar on his chin.

“You have crossed the line,” Stokes said. “You have disrespected this institution, your peers, and me. And here at East Point Academy, there is only one place we send boys like you.”

Jay’s mouth went dry. “Sir—”

“The Hole.”

They didn’t drag him.

They didn’t have to.

His legs moved on their own, following the line of Stokes’s shoulder down a hallway he hadn’t walked before. The air got cooler. The fluorescent lights turned harsher. The sound of the rest of the school faded behind them.

At the far end stood a steel door with a small, square hatch near the top. Someone had scratched a single word into the paint:

HOLE.

“No,” Jay said, shaking his head. “Come on, it was a joke. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“You should’ve thought of that earlier,” Stokes said. “Actions. Consequences. That’s how it works in the real world, son. This isn’t some video game where you just respawn.”

The guard unlocked the door. Cold air spilled out.

“Please,” Jay said, voice cracking. “Please don’t put me in there. I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll do better. I’ll follow the rules. I’ll—”

“Inside,” Stokes said.

The door slammed.

Darkness hit like a physical thing.

His breath came fast and shallow. The room felt too small, the air too thin.

He reached for his phone.

It wasn’t there. They’d taken it at intake.

“Hello?” he shouted. “Hey! Anyone out there?”

His voice bounced off concrete. No answer.

Minutes blurred into hours. Or maybe it was the other way around. Time didn’t work properly in the dark.

Somewhere above, something skittered across metal.

Spiders, he thought, stomach twisting. Flex had joked about spiders. What if it wasn’t a joke?

He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was curled on the cold floor, knees hugged to his chest.

He thought about his room back home. The messy bed. The pile of clothes. His mom’s voice telling him to pick up his wrappers.

He thought about the cheesecake prank, and how proud he’d felt watching Brian gasp.

He thought about Stokes calling him a cockroach and, for the first time, wondered if he’d become exactly what people expected him to be.

“Please,” he whispered into the dark. “I’ll be good. I swear. Just… get me out of here. Take me home.”

He didn’t know how long he sat there.

When the door finally opened, the light burned his eyes.

He threw up a hand to shield his face.

“Lawson,” a familiar voice said. “Can you repeat what you just said?”

His mom stood in the doorway, eyes shiny, shoulders tight. Behind her, Ms. Jensen watched, arms folded.

“I said,” Jay croaked, scrambling to his feet, “I’ll do better. I’ll follow the rules. I’ll do anything you want. Just… someone get me out of here and take me home. Please. I want to go home.”

His mom’s face crumpled. She stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

“I tried to tell you,” she murmured into his hair. “Be careful what you wish for. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”

He clung to her like a little kid. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for everything. I’ll clean my room. I’ll stop with the pranks. I’ll listen. Just please don’t leave me here.”

“As long as you mean what you just said,” she answered, “we’re going home.”

He nodded into her shoulder like his life depended on it.

Because in that moment, it kind of did.

A week later, the Lawson house looked almost the same from the outside.

Same palm trees in the front yard. Same faded UCLA sticker on the SUV in the driveway. Same streak of marinara sauce on the mailbox from that one time Jay tried to balance a pizza box and missed.

Inside, though, things had changed.

“Hey, honey,” his mom called. “Dinner’s gonna be ready in five. Did you clean—”

She stopped in the doorway of his room.

The bed was made. The floor was visible. His clothes were folded. The trash can wasn’t overflowing.

He looked up from the box he was packing. “What?” he said. “Do I have something on my face?”

“You… did all this without me asking,” she said slowly.

He shrugged. “What can I say? East Point changed me. I’m a reformed man.”

She eyed the open box. “What’s that?”

“Care package,” Jay said. “For Flex. He loves X-Men, so I’m sending him some of my old comics. Apparently I’m a legend there now for taking down Stokes and surviving the Hole. They probably made a campfire story out of it.”

Her mouth twitched. “Well, I’m glad you made friends while learning a valuable lesson. And that you realized I’m not so bad after all.”

He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t have the same bite as before. “You’re… okay,” he said.

She laughed. “High praise. I’ll take it. Now hurry up. Dinner in five.”

“Got it.”

As soon as she left, he reached under his desk and pulled out a small sheet of plastic wrap.

He stretched it carefully over the top of his water glass until it was perfectly tight and clear. Then he balanced the glass on the edge of his slightly open door, just high enough that anyone who swung it inward too fast would get a harmless splash.

He stepped back and admired his work.

“No hot sauce,” he told himself. “No tarantulas. Just… a reminder that I still got it.”

From the hallway, his mom shouted, “Jay! Don’t make me call you twice!”

“I’m coming!” he yelled back.

He eased his door open from the outside, deftly catching the glass before it tipped, then set it on his dresser.

As he headed down the hall, he heard her mutter under her breath, “Please let the bathroom be clean, please let the bathroom be clean—”

He smiled.

The grass on his side of the fence had never looked greener.

And for once in his life, Jay Lawson was okay with staying right where he was.