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to have a vague memory of his father from that day—handsome and tan with wavy brown hair. He’d worn a blue jean jacket. Collin remembered his dad picking him up and holding him over his head. He remembered the jeep, parked in front of their town house.
    Aaron Cox and his fiancée had died three months later when that same jeep spun out of control and hit a truck on Highway 145 outside Telluride, Colorado. Collin’s mother hadn’t gone to the funeral. She’d been in her first stint in a drug rehab facility at the time, and little Collin had been staying with his grandparents at their beachfront home in Poulsbo.
    He wished he were there now. He had his own bedroom—with a TV and a connecting bathroom. From his window, he looked out at Liberty Bay. It was always so quiet there.
    He now longed for that same quiet—just waves lapping against the shore outside. But Chance and his lowlife friends were laughing and carrying on downstairs. Even with the Ambien in his system, Collin still couldn’t fall asleep. He tore off his bedsheets and sat up.
    The drug must have worked from the ground up, because his legs felt wobbly as he climbed out of bed. Collin had on his South Park T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. He grabbed his pillow, which smelled of Clearasil, and hugged it to his chest. Lumbering into the closet, he pulled the string for the overhead light and shut the door behind him. Already, the noise downstairs became muffled. He staggered past the row of clothes on hangers. They concealed a narrow door—about four feet tall. Opening it, he reached inside and switched on the light. He lost his footing for a second. Empty hangers rattled and clinked as he stumbled back into them. He braced himself against the wall, and then pulled the string to turn off the closet light.
    Collin ducked into the storage space, which was surprisingly cool on this muggy summer night. He’d fixed it up with a cheap bathroom rug, a bookcase full of books, his sleeping bag, and a battery-operated lantern. He kept the area clean. It had a small window, which he opened a crack. He tossed his pillow on top of the sleeping bag. Then he switched on the lantern and weaved back toward the tiny door to close it and turn off the light.
    This secret room reminded him of that little shack by Shilshole Bay. When he needed to be alone and couldn’t get away from home, this crawlspace was the next best thing. Except for some muted laughter, he couldn’t hear them anymore. And he couldn’t keep his eyes open.
    Collin crawled inside the sleeping bag and tucked the pillow under his head. He felt a cool, gentle breeze coming through the open window.
    The next thing he knew, he and his mother were scurrying around under the shadow of the Space Needle, looking for an entrance into the Experience Music Project. Every door they tried was locked. He kept thinking they didn’t have much time before the place closed. He was so angry at her, because she’d told Chance where they were going. Collin desperately wanted to get inside the building before Chance caught up with them. At last, he found a door that opened, and he tried to pull his mother inside.
    â€œGod, no, wait!” she screamed.
    He heard Chance cursing.
    Suddenly, he was awake. He knew he wasn’t at the Experience Music Project. He’d sweated inside the warm sleeping bag. He remembered the weird thing about Ambien was that it gave him vivid, realistic dreams. But he could have sworn that had actually been the sound of his mother’s voice just a moment ago. And the spew of loud obscenities from Chance seemed to come from beneath the attic’s floorboards.
    Collin kept still and listened. He heard some indistinct conversation. It sounded like other people talking. He wondered what time it was. Hadn’t the party broken up yet?
    He started drifting off again. He thought of Dastardly Dave and the Shilshole Kid—except they weren’t