Outside, in the near distance, gravel crunching under feet.

Here they come.

It’s not Abel. I know his footfall, like a trick-or-treater bounding up a walkway. These steps are heavy, joyless. Sinister.

Four clomps. Five. Six. Coming closer.

A pause.

Then a creak, and the Sunseeker shudders.

They’re on the steps.

We have an Atlanta spy. Plots are thickening.

Someone sits on the step with a thud and I hear a metallic clink that could be lots of things, none of them good. I see the Hell Bells post in my head, that weird “BFC” thing. Bullets From Crazies? Beat Fags Cheerfully?

My hands scrabble for weapons. Not a mop‌—‌stupid. Frying pan‌—‌no. I’ll go bold. There’s no choice.

My heart chugs wildly. I tiptoe close to the door and put my mouth right on the crack. Ragged breathing on the other side. I tighten my throat and set my jaw, shift my feet apart like tough guys in movies who say stuff like this, in exactly this booming rat-a-tat voice: “I’VE GOT A GUN!”

“Auuugh!”

The scream scares me so much I lose my logic, fling the door wide open. Abel’s stumbling away from the Sunseeker, clutching his chest. On the pavement by the steps: his keys and a replica of Cadmus’s ray gun, still spinning where he dropped it.

He gulps in a breath. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I didn’t know it was you!”

“Who’d you think I was?”

“I don’t know!” The door starts closing on me; I punch it back. “Where were you?”

“Out! Walking! Is that allowed?”

“Yeah, I just‌—‌”

“Oh my God. My heart.”

“I’m sorry‌…‌”

“Forget it. Forget it.” He snatches his stuff up and clomps into the Sunseeker, squeezing past me in the doorway. I haven’t felt this dumb since the Timbrewolves concert when I screwed up the solo on “My Girl.” His eyes are all red and I want to ask him about it, but he catches me searching his face and looks away fast. He yanks the fridge open and stares inside for a long minute. Then he slams the door.

“Why is your hair wet?” he sighs.

“Dumb story.”

“I’m sure. You want to go somewhere?”

“Where?”

He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a bright yellow flyer. “Some coffeehouse, they’re having a Castaway marathon.”

“Maybe.”

I take the flyer from him and scan it. I wait for Father Mike to weigh in, but there’s nothing much in my head right now, just an ache and a dull gray hum.

“So Kade dumped me.”

I look up. Abel’s wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at me.

“When?”

“Forty-five minutes ago.” He pumps some gel into his hand and starts punking his hair up. “On Twitter.”

“Oh my God.”

“Whatever. At least he DMed me.”

“I’m sorry. That’s rotten.”

Abel shrugs.

“Why’d he‌—‌”

“Zzt!” He holds up a hand. “Completely expected. Not a huge deal. No questions, no sympathetic looks. Them’s the rules. Okay?”

“I guess, but‌…‌”

“You call a cab. I’ll pay.”

“I saw the spies.”

He stops attacking his hair. “‌…‌What?”

“The Hell Bells spies. I think I saw them.”

“What’d they look like?”

“You know. Menacing.”

“Menacing how? Like‌—‌” He makes a bucktoothed monster face.

“Not exactly.”

“Were they goons?”

“I don’t know what a goon looks like.”

“You’d know one if you saw one.”

“I guess they were.”

“Big dudes?”

“Big enough.”

“They follow you?”

“For a while.”

Abel shakes his head. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Wow.” He leans against the fridge and shudders. “Creepy.”

“I’m not sure we should go out. Maybe it’s too‌—‌”

“No. No, I’m calling the cab right now.”

“But they could be anywhere.”

“I’m not living in fear, Brandon. Screw it. That’s so 1952.”

“Why 1952?”

“I don’t know. Like, Rock Hudson or whatever.” He holds up his phone. “Are you coming or not?”

I fiddle with the zipper pull on my vest.

“We should stick together,” I say. “Stay in crowds.”

He smiles a little.

“Roger that,” he Cadmuses.

“We shouldn’t sit by a window.”

“Heavens no.”

“And also‌—‌”

“‌—‌you should take this off.”

He unzips my SAFE-U vest with the tip of one finger, like Cadmus undid Nigh’s jacket in the Season 1 finale. Then he crosses his thick arms in front of him and pulls his tight black t-shirt up over his head. Crap, crap, crap. My whole body heats up. I’ve never seen a naked torso that wasn’t on a cross, at least not so close up. I don’t know where to look. His belly button. Belly button. Look at the belly button.

He’s holding his shirt out. “This is more you than me.”

“I don’t need to change.”

“Yeah you do.”

He grips the front of my shirt and pulls me closer, makes his voice all low and raspy like Cadmus.

“You’ll want to look sexy for Jesus,” he says, “in case it’s our last night on earth.”

Chapter Eleven

Near the mouth of the crystal spider cave, now definitively sealed by a Xaarg-generated avalanche, Cadmus and Sim huddle together for warmth. Or Cadmus huddles close to Sim, if you want to get technical about it. Sim controls his own body temperature. He turns up his own regulation switch, just behind his right ear, and then dials it back when the heat gets too much.

“Captain, I must apologize for this detour,” says Sim. “I have long suspected a malfunction in my compass application.”

“Ahhh, don’t be sorry.” Cadmus shivers. He pats Sim’s arm and gives it a squeeze. “It’s Xaarg. Either way, we were screwed.”

Some girl goes Boom-chicka-wow-wowww, and giggles erupt in the Lunar Rose Coffeehouse. That flyer didn’t mention this was a Season 4 marathon, or that 80% of their clientele are apparent Cadsim shippers. By the time the cave episode rolls around, I’ve already endured the full horror of hearing Sim’s best lines chanted out loud, like some kind of deluded shipper incantation, by a bunch of girls in costumes and homemade t-shirts that say TEAM CADSIM in blue glitter. Abel and I scrunch down on a battered velvet couch at the back of the room, hoping no one recognizes us from Screw Your Sensors. These girls would eat us for dinner.

I check the door every few minutes. No Hell Bells spies yet. Abel’s probably right‌—‌who would follow us here?

“This episode blows,” whispers Abel. He’s sipping a cinnamon latte and scarfing a second giant snickerdoodle, like he didn’t just show me his naked torso less than two hours ago. I still can’t look him in the eye. But at least we’re not fighting.

“I know,” I whisper back. “Terrible.”

“That speech Cadmus gives Sim about how his dad missed his graduation?”

“Shameless.”

“So out of character.”

“Sim’s should-I-have-stayed-human angst is a two-ton anvil, too.”

“Yeah, like, why do we need a Breakfast Club scene where they talk it into the ground?”

Onscreen, the arm touch segues into lingering eye contact and the girls go bananas: Kiss, kiss, kiss! I shake my head.

“It’s fanservice. Pure and simple.”

“It’s lazy. Snickerdoodle?”

“Just a tiny piece.”

Abel breaks a big chunk off for me and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. I move a little bit, just out of habit.

“Oh‌…‌I’m not in your space, am I?” he grins.

“Shut up.”

“You started it,” he says.

“Yeah, well, you disappeared on me. Call it even.”

“Sorry,” he mutters around his cookie.

“Why’d you just leave like that?”

“I dunno. Shandley was such a dicksmack, I couldn’t deal. You get in your bubble, you forget what the rest of the world’s like.”

“I don’t think he’s a bigot.”

“Self-loather?”

“Maybe.”

“Ugh. They should die in a fire.”