Apologize to Dylan, or we cut you off.
He had said it with the confidence of a man who thought he still owned the road beneath my feet.
Now he was looking at proof that I had already built another road.
Dylan’s phone pinged again.
Then mine.
Then my father’s.
Then Dylan’s again, three sharp sounds in the silence, like nails being driven into a coffin.
Dylan swallowed and looked at me. For the first time in my entire life, the golden boy was not glowing.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please tell me you didn’t send it.”
My father lowered his phone slowly.
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