I look at the blue dot on Tasha's cracked screen. It hasn't moved in over an hour now. Just sitting there in some apartment complex in East Falls, mocking me.

  "So what do we do?" Tasha asks quietly.

  I want to say we go there. Right now. Track him down while we know where he is. But I'm looking at Tasha's arm in the sling, feeling my ribs scream with every breath, tasting blood in my mouth that might be mine or might be his.

  "Nothing," I say. "Not tonight."

  She blinks. "Really?"

  "We're both fucked up. We don't know if that's even a safehouse or just somewhere he stopped," I explain. Plus, I really just don't know enough about BugTags or really any kind of tracking device. I've always used my nose. Will it stop eventually? Does it... have a battery? I don't even know how this works.

  God, I miss Jordan.

  "So we just... wait?" Tasha asks, incredulous.

  "We trace the path later. See where he went, where he stops, if there's a pattern. I can probably track blood spatter too, if he left any when he was bleeding." I lean back in the chair, and something in my back pops in a way that doesn't feel good. "But not now. Not like this."

  Tasha looks at me for a long second. "Who are you and what did you do with Sam?"

  "Shut up." But there's no heat in it. "Also, how are you tracking that thing? It's Jordan's, right?"

  "Um, do you know what sideloading is?" Tasha asks.

  I raise an eyebrow. "Not a clue."

  "Okay, well, you know how each phone manufacturer has their own app store, right? And that there's like marketplaces you can get to on the internet? Like, NetSphere has one, and Giigamesh has one, and Apple has one... Well, when you just install something directly from an app maker's website, that's called 'sideloading' it. Or at least that's how Jordan explained it to me," Tasha explains back to me.

  "What, no needing to go to Radioshack for a chip?" I ask.

  "Just gimme your damn phone," Tasha grumbles, fumbling one-handed with her good arm for me. I don't watch over her shoulder. Installing or sideloading or whatever, and then the simulated taka-taka noise of fake keypresses, and then she hands it back. Now I'm on their network. Our network. Our map. Featuring a blue dot, trailing behind a slime trail like a snail, showing where he went from the Music Hall. South for a bit, then northwest. The little timestamps marking when he was where.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "There," I say. "Now we both have it. You can watch it from home while you're recovering."

  "And you?" She asks.

  "Same. We're not doing anything stupid tonight." I pause. "We also need to talk to Davis about the Music Hall. Those pipes he smashed - that's water damage. Old wood's going to soak through in spots. It's not usable anymore."

  Tasha's face falls. "Our base."

  "Yeah." I don't have the energy to sugarcoat it. "But that's a conversation for later. For when we're not sitting in a hospital at like eight at night."

  She nods, but she looks exhausted. The painkillers are probably wearing off, or maybe she's just hitting the wall where your body realizes it's been through something terrible and needs to shut down.

  "Sam," she says, and her voice is different. Smaller. "My arms. You saw--"

  Oh. We're doing this now. Of course we are.

  "Yeah," I say. "I saw."

  She won't look at me. Just stares at the sling, at her hand sticking out of it. "That's not - we don't need to--"

  "Tasha." I wait until she looks up. "I should've noticed. I'm sorry I didn't."

  "It's not your fault."

  "I didn't say it was. I just said I should've noticed. That's different." I'm trying to figure out how to do this, how to have this conversation without making it about me or my guilt or anything except what she needs. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "Not now." Her voice cracks a little. "Maybe later. Just - not now."

  "Okay. But if you do want to, or if you need anything, or--" I'm fumbling this. I don't know how to talk about this kind of thing. "I'm here. That's all."

  She nods, wiping her eyes with her good hand. "Thanks."

  The curtain pulls back and Mrs. Reynolds pokes her head in. "Visiting hours are wrapping up, Sam. Your parents are waiting."

  I stand up, careful not to jar anything that hurts. "Text me when you get home?"

  "Yeah. You too."

  "And if the dot moves--"

  "I'll text you. I promise." She tries to smile. "Go home. Sleep. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

  My parents are in the waiting room, my mom still looking worried, my dad doing that thing where he's completely calm on the outside but you can tell he's processing everything. They don't ask questions on the walk to the car. Don't push. Just let me exist in the silence.

  The drive home is quiet. My mom turns around once to look at me in the backseat, but I've got my eyes closed, leaning against the window. I'm not actually asleep but I don't want to talk. Can't talk. If I start talking I'll have to explain things I can't explain, and I just don't have it in me right now.

  We get home and my mom tries to get me to eat something but I just shake my head and go upstairs. My room looks the same as it did this morning, which is weird because everything feels different. I should shower - I'm covered in dust and blood and sweat - but I can't. I barely manage to kick off my shoes before falling onto my bed.

  My phone is still in my hand. I open the tracker app one more time. The blue dot is still there, stationary. The trail from the Music Hall to wherever he is, all laid out in little breadcrumbs we can follow later.

  Tomorrow. We'll deal with it tomorrow.

  I'm asleep before I can think about anything else.