Carter said he had the "perfect spot," and I expected somewhere in Little Italy or one of the restaurants I'd seen on a Food Net- work show, but he dropped us outside a narrow pizza place in Harlem, a couple of blocks past the Apollo Theater. It was loud, busy, crowded with customers—and corners: on the tables, freezer cases, counters. The type of chaos that made Garrett extra-vigilant and me hyper-aware of the distance between my body and all potential bruisers while we waited for our slices to be heated, tossed on paper plates, and slid into a brown paper bag.

I exhaled my relief when Garrett opened the restaurant's door and we stepped into the night. I pulled out my phone and opened my favorite NYC map app, adding a flag to mark our spot.

"I'm dying to see your 'secret clubhouse'—does this one have Spiderman posters too?" As I skipped down the sidewalk, the toe of my shoe hit a piece of broken bottle and sent it tinkling off into the shadows.

"Put your phone away." His expression was tight. "Stay close to me."

I understood that order. We walked past cracked windows and graffiti, around split garbage bags and the huddled shapes of the homeless. It was very different being here versus playing with virtual maps—marking walks I hoped to take in some distant, healthy future and planning someday visits to landmarks and museums. Although those walks and places weren't in this neighborhood.

Garrett was at my side, one hand not quite touching my elbow, the other clutching the brown bag that was growing grease stains. His eyes were alert and darting but also pointing out things.

"See that alley? It goes all the way to the next street. That one, the one with the tattoo parlor on the corner? It's a dead end. Don't go in that bodega. It's just a cover for a drug operation. You know how to work the panic button on your phone, right? And how to tell if someone's following you?"

"Of course. I might not be 'hot,' but I'm not helpless. My father taught me some things too." I saw him wince, his hand involuntarily patting the back of his shirt.

"This is a bad idea. I don't agree with Carter. I don't think dragging you into any of this is smart or safe."

I narrowed my eyes. "Too bad it's not your decision." "Yeah. Well, I guess it's too late now anyway. We're here." I pulled out my phone and added another location flag. 

This was something big, something important, and I was being included. I felt my eyes go wide with anticipation as he ducked into a dingy doorway. Just a few square feet of dirty gray tile and mangled mailboxes. The inner door was propped open with a container of mints, the same brand my brother had offered us earlier. Garrett picked it up and slid it in his pocket. "Good, Carter's already here."

Passing through the door, we faced another small area. Not even a proper lobby. It smelled of mold and spoiled food. Gar- rett pointed to a staircase, and we began to climb. Four flights later he knocked on 4B.

There were sounds of something dragging in the apartment, something slamming.

Then there were the slides and clicks of locks being turned, and my brother's face appeared in the doorway. "Hey, come on in."

"Your clubhouse is an apartment? Since when do you even like the city? I thought you were all anti-noise or bustle or what- ever it was."

"You mean back when you were eleven and every time you didn't get your way, you threatened to run away here so we'd never see you again? People grow up, Pen. You stopped throwing tantrums, and I changed my mind about the city."

Except I still threatened that in my head, all the time. And daydreamed about it through every immunoglobulin infusion. How nice of Carter to go ahead and realize my dream for me. "So why are we here? Whose place is this?"

"It's my apartment," Carter stated proudly. "I own it."

"No way." I'd watched far too many real estate reality shows to fall for that. "Nice try. You couldn't even afford a shoe box in New York City. Not unless you've dropped out of school and taken up a lucrative career as—"

"What would you know about real estate?" The tips of his ears were red, the way they got when he was angry or embar- rassed. Or both. "Or money for that matter. You sit behind your computer screen with Daddy's platinum cards, but when was the last time you even held a dollar bill?"

Since I couldn't remember I couldn't contradict him, so I just glared.

"Who's hungry?" asked Garrett, stepping between us and rubbing his hands together. That had to be instinct honed in his family, because there wasn't any chance Carter and I would actually come to blows.

"As I was saying,"—Carter gestured around him—"welcome to my place. It's completely off-grid. No one but Garrett, and now you, knows about it. No Family bugs. No enforcement waiting in the hall. This is my safe space to do whatever I want."

"Like what?" I asked. "Like tell me what's going on? Let's start with what was making so much noise before you opened the door."

"Okay, wee impatient one. Sit. Eat. We'll fill you in."

"Is this a hold-your-questions-till-the-end type of presen- tation? Or am I allowed to interrupt?" I asked. Garrett was pull- ing the pizza out of the bag, so to him I said, "Mine's the pepperoni."

"Does that work for Nolan? Because I didn't think you were capable of not interrupting." Carter laughed, and I knew I was forgiven.

I reached for the plate Garrett was holding out to me, but he froze. Then flung the pizza on the coffee table. He stepped toward me, eyes narrowing, mouth tightening. "What happened to your hand?"

"What?" I glanced at my fingers, then curled them toward my palm, hid them behind my back. My bracelet slid down my wrist to land just above them and mock my next words, "It's nothing."

"You didn't have those bruises earlier. What happened?"

Carter's smile was gone now too. Erased by the purple stains on the inside of my fingers. "How bad is it, Pen?"

"I'm fine. It's really no big deal, just from . . ." I mentally con- nected some dots. "From the car door earlier." Except that made it sound worse—like my counts were so low, closing a door could cause this. "Normal people bruise too. I might have gone a bit ballistic when I heard the gunshots and tried to claw my way out. Which reminds me, child-locking my door is not cool, Carter."

"Neither is leaving the car after I told you to stay put." There was no joking warmth in his eyes. "You couldn't even follow that simple request?"

"I-I was worried about you. I heard the gunshots. Is that really a bad thing?"

"Yes," they snapped simultaneously.

"How can I trust you?" asked Carter with a shake of his head. "You really would've disobeyed and run directly toward gun-shots?"

"Garrett, back me up, please?" I reached a hand for his arm, but all he did was gently flip my palm and sigh over the purple lines that marred my fingers.

"Princess, you don't get it, do you? And you got hurt. You can't—" He turned to Carter. "We can't. Don't you see that? We can't involve her in this."

I snatched my hand away. "These are just regular bruises. The kind anyone could get. My counts are good." That was sup- posed to be the magic sentence that unlocked all the doors in my life.

"Are they?" asked Carter, pointing to my purple fingers, pointing to the inscription on the bracelet right above them:

PENELOPE LANDLOW

BLEEDING DISORDER/LOW PLATELETS/ITP

His question shattered every one of my arguments and retorts, replaced them with all-consuming doubt. Were they? They could flip in an instant, my body suddenly deciding it liked destroying platelets more than being healthy. Maybe this wasn't the cusp of a remission, but a lull before a big crash. Was he thinking of my worst periods? When I was ten and my counts had been so low we could draw smiley faces on my skin, the lines we traced showing up immediately in purple? Dr. Castillo had not been amused by our ingenuity. Neither had my parents. At the time, my platelet counts were below a thousand. Not much had broken through their wild terror, but I can still remember the way they'd yelled at him, the way he'd radiated guilt and apologies and "I just wanted to make her smile."

The expression Carter wore now wasn't much different. He studied me as if he was in pain, as if looking at me was pain- ful. "Eat your pizza, Pen, then we'll head home. Unless . . . do we need to leave now? Take you right to the clinic? Let me see your hand again." Garrett exhaled a sound of relief and palmed Carter's keys off the counter.

"I'm really okay." I bit back tears and retrieved my plate from the coffee table.

It was quiet for several minutes. Garrett and Carter frowned and watched me like I might spontaneously bleed all over the apartment. I tried to convince myself that all I'd lost was some Business secret I hadn't known I wanted when I woke up that morning. My numbers could still be good. How easily and quickly I bruised could be an indicator of lower counts, but it wasn't like every bruise meant disaster and danger. They were like a smoke alarm—sometimes they meant fire! and sometimes they meant burned toast. These had to be toast.

Carter cleared his throat and forced a smile. "So, what do you think of the apartment?"

The pizza rasped like sandpaper when I tried to swallow. "It's nice."

It wasn't quite a lie. Nothing in the apartment was new or top-notch, but it had a look. Things went together to create a style. It showed an eye for design that I'd never imagined my brother had.

Carter, who mocked me every time I tried to watch a home makeover show, had chosen a deep purple for the walls. There were accent colors: teal and lime used on throw pillows, curtains, and an afghan draped on the navy couch. There was a rug the color of paprika, and the chair where I sat to eat my pizza was huge. Big enough for three of me. It had once been a deep chocolate color—before use and age had faded the leather into a series of comfortable wrinkles.

If I hadn't been trying so, so hard to make myself chew, swallow, and hold back tears, I would have teased him for it.

I gave up on my pizza and wandered into the kitchen, feel- ing their eyes tracking my moves. It was a small room, sepa- rated from the main living space by a breakfast bar with two stools and dominated by a freezer that took up the whole wall between the fridge and trash can.

There were coffee mugs in the sink. "Were you guys here recently?"

"No," said Garrett at the same time Carter said, "Yeah . . . I mean, no."

I'd had a decade to accept that people often told me lies to spare my feelings. This one hurt more than most, because it was point- less and transparent.

"This thing is massive. What's in it?" I tugged on the freezer's lid, but it was either locked or iced shut.

"It came with the apartment. It's empty. Broken. I just haven't gotten rid of it yet," Carter said.

But it was plugged in. It hummed with electricity, and there were spots of water on the floor at its base. Like melted freezer frost—the kind knocked off if the lid was slammed quickly because you were hurrying to open the door.

I gave Carter a you're-full-of-it look, which he chose to ignore, and tugged on the lid again.

"Princess, stop," said Garrett. "Don't make your hand worse."

I stepped away as if it might burn me. Not that I'd been doing anything remotely bruise-worthy. At least not if my counts were still where they'd been seven days ago.

Carter balled up his plate, uneaten pizza and all. "You done, Gare? Let's go."

If they kept this place a secret, there must be a reason, and I was running out of time. Maybe they wouldn't let me see what was in the freezer, but not everything was locked. I grabbed the fridge door and opened it triumphantly: nothing but pickles, cheese, jam, and tiny plastic packets of soy sauce and mustard.

I left the kitchen and turned to go down the hallway, but Gar- rett was out of his seat in a flash, standing between me and the three remaining doors.

"It's time to go."
"Don't I get the rest of the tour?" I asked.


"I think that's enough for tonight."


"But . . ."


"We're leaving, Pen," Carter said. "If you're up for it, we'll take you off-estate again soon—maybe even actually see a play next time. Or Korean barbecue. Right now I just want to get you home without further damage."

I didn't want to be placated. I didn't want Carter to suffer through musicals or feel guilted into letting me tag along to dinner. I wanted him to respect me, include me. And while I may have gotten in the front door of their nineteen-year-olds' version of a boys' clubhouse, I still wasn't good enough for their secrets.

"I'm fine." The words sounded like a prayer—they were a prayer.

On the ride home, Carter chatted nonstop about the area, naming the cross streets, the distinguishing characteristics of the building, the apartment number. He told me where he had keys hidden—two keys, two different locations. The one for the main door was taped inside the top of the mailbox for apartment 5F. The mailbox itself could be popped open if you pressed on the bottom left corner. To access the apartment key, you had to go behind the staircase, get down on your stomach, and feel around on the bottom of the third stair to find the spot where it was magnetically attached.

It was chatter I normally would've loved and recorded on my map app, but it was also noise to prevent me from asking ques- tions—pointless pity information, since I'd never be able to use any of it without him. And after tonight, who knew when I'd get off-estate again.

"Though, with your map obsession, you probably know New York better than I do. Bet we could drop you anywhere in the city and you could find the apartment."

"Why don't we try it and see?" I suggested.

"Not funny," said Garrett with a groan. He reached around his back, pulling up his shirt to expose muscles and skin . . . and the black lines of his holster. "Can't sit comfortably with this thing." He pulled out the gun and placed it in the glove box.

Carter laughed. "Better?"


"Much."


They relaxed and I tensed up. It was another unwelcome reminder of how they'd changed and I was still me. I cradled my hand in my lap and stared at the bruises. Hated them. Hated my skin. Hated the blood beneath it and the platelets within that.