When a shy girl from Figure Eight suddenly gets whisked into a dangerous treasure hunt involving four pogues known for their knack for trouble, she finds herself navigating not only the troubled waters of adventure but also the complexities of frien...
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The Twinkie rattled down the dark road, its tired engine humming over the sound of Sydney's heartbeat. She sat in the back, next to Pope and rested her head against the cool glass of the window, staring out into the nothingness, but all she could think about was how badly she wanted to get out of there. To get away from the van, from everything.
She wanted to go home.
Her skin crawled with the thick layer of filth that clung to her the dirt, sweat, tears, and worst of all the chicken shit. She could still feel it, sticking to her arms, her legs, her back. The sensation made her stomach turn, and no matter how much she wiped at her skin, she couldn't get it off.
She wanted to leave. She wanted to shower. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
But there was nowhere else to go. Not yet. She had to stay in the Twinkie, in this mess, for just a little longer.
She swallowed hard, the taste of fear and dirt still coating her tongue. Every time she blinked, she saw it again — the rooster's frantic wings, JJ's hands, the snap that silenced everything. The memory hit like a physical thing, and her stomach twisted.
Kiara was in the front seat, her forehead resting against the window, eyes puffy and red. She wasn't crying anymore, but the quiet sniffles came every few minutes. John B's hands were white-knuckled on the wheel, his stare locked on the road ahead like it might disappear if he looked away.
Pope sat beside Sydney, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. He hadn't said a word since they'd piled in. None of them had.
Sydney drew her knees up to her chest, curling into herself as much as the cramped space allowed. The hum of the van was steady, hypnotic — and all she could think was how much she wanted to peel off her skin just to feel clean again.
Across from her, JJ sat with his back against the door, one arm slung over his knee. He looked pale under the dim light, eyes shadowed and distant.
Sydney felt disconnected from all of them, like she was the only one spiraling into this silent panic. She wanted to scream, to tear the grime from her skin and run far, far away. But instead, she just pressed her forehead harder against the glass, closing her eyes, trying to hold herself together.
Maybe once they stopped somewhere—anywhere—she could disappear, even if just for a moment. Maybe she could find a way to scrub herself clean and forget or even cover her exposed skin.
She began rubbing at the dirt, trying to clean the scrapes with her fingers, but it was useless. The dirt had dried in the hot Outer Banks sun, cementing itself into her skin and making her feel even more trapped in the aftermath of everything. But she didn't give up; instead, she focused on that small act of cleaning, hoping it might somehow help her forget.
Just then, she heard John B clear his throat, the sound cutting through the thick tension in the van. "I mean, it's obvious, right?" he said, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and determination. "A family heirloom. What better place to hide a message?"
