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Ronan didn’t know end everyone knew: His father, rich and powerful and Bulgarian, lived in Jersey where he was possibly a mobster His mother, tanned and fit and made of non-factory-standard parts, lived in the suburban mansion with Kavinsky This was the story Kavinsky told That was the legend The rumor was his mother’s nasal septum had been eaten away by cocaine and his father’s patriarchal instinct had died when Kavinsky tried to kill him

With Kavinsky, it had always been hard to say as real Now, looking at hi a fraudulently perfect chrome firearm, it was even harder

"Is it true you tried to kill your father?" Ronan asked He looked right at Kavinsky when he said it His unflinching gaze was his second finest weapon, after his silence

Kavinsky didn’t look away "I never try to do anything, man I do what I mean to"

"Rumor has it that’s why you’re here and not Jersey"

"He tried to kill littered He had no irises Just black and white The line of his sly and lascivious "And he doesn’t always do what he means to And anyway, I’m harder to kill than that You kill your old man?"

"No," Ronan said "This killed hio again?"

Ronan was

Pills on tongue Chase it with beer

This ti spat froht, hold his breath, curl his body He rolled into the drea vehicle

Soundlessly, he rolled into the trees

They watched each other A strange bird screamed Orphan Girl was nowhere to be seen

Ronan ducked low He was quiet as rain under a root He thought:

bomb

And there it was, a Molotov cocktail, not very different from the one he’d thrown into the Mitsubishi Three rocks jutted from the daums The bottle was tipped between theers around the dewcovered neck of the bottle

Te vidimus, Greywaren, whispered one of the trees

(We see you, Greywaren)

He clenched his hand around the bo --

He exploded awake

Kavinsky was already back, doing a line of coke off the dash The light outside was dull and dead, past twilight His neck and chin were lit like a garden feature by the dash lights below He wiped his nose His already keen expression sharpened when he saw Ronan’s dream object

Ronan was paralyzed as usual, but he could see perfectly hat he’d just produced: a Molotov cocktail identical to those at the substance party -- a T-shirt twisted and stuffed into a beer bottle full of gasoline It looked just as it had in the drea

The flalass The gasoline was slicked up the side, reaching for deh, Kavinsky hit thebutton with his elbow and seized the bomb He hurled it into the dusk The bottle only ainst the side of the Mitsubishi and in through the openThe smell was terrific, an aerial battle, and the sound sucked all of the hearing out of Ronan’s ears

Hanging his ar profoundly unconcerned, Kavinsky shook glass shards off his skin and into the grass Two seconds later, and he wouldn’t have had any arms to worry about Ronan wouldn’t have had a face

"Hey," Ronan said "Don’t touch my stuff"

Kavinsky turned his heavy-lidded eyes to Ronan, eyebrows raised "Check it"

He lifted his drealionby Academy with honors Ronan hadn’t seen one to know if the crea was accurate But he recognized the spattered signature frolionby correspondence President Bell’s artistic scraas unainst Ronan’s code to be impressed,

"You’re too eet it If you had balls, it’d be different" He tapped his teo to electronics, swipe soet out of there Don’taround in there This would help"

He gestured to the powder still dusting the dash Barely there A fine memory of powder Ronan shook his head He could feel Gansey’s eyes on him

"Suit yourself" Kavinsky retrieved another six-pack froo?"

And they dreamt They dreamt and dreamt, and the stars wheeled overhead and away and the moon hid in the trees and the sun ets and stinging plants, singing stones and lacy bras As the noon boiled down, they climbed out and stripped their sweaty shirts and drea to be contained in a car Again and again Ronan punched into the forest in his fraying drea to understand what Kavinsky meant The dream was a byproduct in all of this; sleep was irrelevant The trees were just obstacles, a sort of faulty alars fro the, and then there was night with its tantalizing reflections off one hundred white cars Ronan didn’t know if it had been days or if this was the sa? When was his last night He didn’t know if they’d already done a rass et and the Mitsubishis’ hoods were beaded sweatily, but it was hard to tell if it had rained or if it was ainst the rear fender of one of the Mitsubishis, the sainst his bare back, and wolfed Twizzlers They felt as if they floated in alcohol inside hi Ronan’s latest piece of work -- a chain saw After he’d satisfied hi some of the tires on the other Mitsubishis, he rejoined Ronan and accepted a single Twizzler He was too high for food to be very interesting as anything besides a concept