Ned glances over his shoulder, then jerks his head at a nearby alley, and Peter follows him down it automatically, with the surreal feeling that he has somehow stepped into a vivid dream. Only when they are safely concealed behind a second set of dumpsters does Ned round on him.
He pulls Peter into a bone-crushing hug.
"Oh my God," he says. "Oh my God, Peter, I'm so sorry about Ben."
Peter only realizes how stiffly he's been holding himself—for days, for weeks… since Ben died—when he finally releases, melting into Ned's shoulder like ice on warm concrete. It takes a second to hug back, but when he does Ned squeezes tighter, and doesn't let go until Peter does.
They break apart, and Ned looks Peter up and down, face falling.
"Dude," he whispers, "you look terrible."
Peter looks down. Now that Ned mentions it, his clothes do look especially large on him, but he hasn't noticed until now.
"Why are we whispering?" he says when he looks up.
Ned glances over his shoulder again.
"I'm not supposed to be here," he says. "I told my mom I'm going to the decathlon team meet and greet at the high school—so I guess now I have to join decathlon next year—but actually I took the bus."
"And you think… you think your mom is going to overhear us? Here?"
"Dude, you know my mom has ears freaking everywhere. I'm pretty sure I saw her standing over me in my bed the other night, just breathing. She was probably waiting to hear what I say in my sleep."
Something strange is happening to Peter's face. It feels tight all of a sudden, but not in an unpleasant way.
It takes him a second to realize he is smiling.
"How did you know where to find me?" he asks.
"Uh, it was not easy, actually. Did you know your phone's been disconnected? So I went to Principal Sanders but all she said was that you transferred and she didn't know where. Then I tried to call the police station but they wouldn't tell me anything, so I emailed CPS, but they were all like, 'who wants to know, don't bother us again,' so I had to find a backdoor into their servers and steal the address of your foster family and then I had to figure out my cover story—"
"You did all that?" Peter says. "Ned, that's seriously impressive."
Ned waves him off.
"Peter, why didn't you try to get in touch with me?"
"My phone—"
"Uh, yeah, it's the twenty-first century. Ever heard of a computer?"
Peter's smile slips. He looks at his shoes, which are nearly too small for him now, though he can't imagine asking the Arlingtons for new ones.
The truth is, he thought about emailing Ned, those first few weeks. There are computers in the school library, even though they're about ten years old and chained to the desks with steel bike locks. But every time he logged on to one he just sat there, too frozen to even open his inbox.
"I…" Peter says, then shuts his mouth and stares at Ned until his friend's expression of slight irritation gives way completely to worry.
"Peter," he says. "What has been going on , dude?"
Peter's tongue comes unstuck in his throat, but what comes out of his mouth is stupid, obvious, and not the answer Ned is looking for.
"Ben died," he says.
Ned's expression falters again.
"It was my fault."
Saying the words aloud is like reciting a charm. It ends the terrible curse of silence and numbness and stillness which, more than the Arlington's duplex, has been Peter's prison these last weeks. But it is not a relieving freedom. It's like all of the blood is rushing back to a limb that was nearly-dead from lack of circulation, and the all-over prickling of grief and shock and anger arriving all at once sends Peter to his knees.
"It was my fault," he sobs, covering his face with his hands. "It was my fault, Ned. He's dead because of me."
He doesn't even realize that Ned's hand is on his back until the sobs subside, which feels like it takes a long time. When he finally looks up, taking deep, hiccuping breaths, Ned is crouched beside him, and there are tear tracks on his face—not as inflamed as Peter's, but still shining in the waning daylight.
"Come on," he says.
Ned hooks an arm under Peter's and hauls him to his feet. Peter doesn't ask where they're going; just follows, stumbling slightly in his too-tight sneakers and not looking up until they are in a pizza joint and Ned is at the counter, speaking to the cashier.
Ned orders four slices, hands two to Peter, and they sit on the curb outside of the shop, watching floods of late-afternoon commuters pass by. The pizza is terrible, but the saltiness replenishes what was lost in his tears, and Peter hasn't had a meal this large since he moved. Ned even gives him his second slice, and only when he is so full it's uncomfortable does Peter start to talk.
He tells Ned about his late-night trips out of the house. He tells him how Ben came to get him from the arcade that night. How they fought. How his uncle stepped in front of him when the mugger appeared in the alleyway but Peter, nerves frayed from all the shouting, lurched forward almost on instinct, as if he could stop the gun emerging from the man's jacket. How the man had startled, and there was a flash, and then…
Ned swallows as Peter falls silent.
"Your new… your foster parents," he says. "Are they being nice to you?"
Peter laughs bitterly, shakes his head.
"I deserve it though," he says. "If it wasn't for me Ben never would have been out that night. If I hadn't…"
"Peter."
Peter looks up. Ned looks aghast.