Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to the trailer. Case studied the rundown camper through the cloud of dust kicked up around their car. Its red-and-white paneling was weathered and discolored, so bad it was noticeable even at night. Easily mistakable for something left abandoned to rot in these West Virginia woodlands, if it weren't for the shiny, black pickup truck attached to its front. An orange glow lit the square window on the side. Some Wrong Turn vibes, but it wasn't too bad. For a drug deal, anyway.

Evan put the car in park and turned off the engine. It was quiet without the low rumble. Not eerie or tense. An emptiness. Like the vacuum of space.

"Man, fuck this shit," said Miles.

Case and Evan both turned to face him in the backseat. Both quick to shut him down with firm voices saying "Dude, it's fine, chill out," and "Don't be a pussy!"

Miles shook his head. "This is some Deliverance shit!"

"What do you expect, a fucking office building?"

"I expect a group of hillbilly rednecks to come out and jack our car or kill us."

Evan laughed. "You're so paranoid."

Case wasn't in a laughing mood. He'd spent over six hours in a car, road trip all the way from Fredneck County, Maryland, to meet a dealer he'd found online. Sure, 400 miles was a long way to go to buy drugs – but he was after the good shit. Everyone at school was drinking stale beer and smoking dirty weed. Some girls had started snorting raw cacao powder they got from the organic health-food store. Case figured if he was gonna spend money on drugs, then he was gonna do it right. Something worth bragging about, something to self-medicate with after his first break-up, something to remember the summer he was seventeen.

"Listen—" His friend stared at him, teeming with I don't want none of this white-boy bullshit energy, so Case added a smile; a bit of charm to win him over. "Alright, yeah, it looks a bit seedy. But we're just grabbing what we came for—two minutes tops, I swear—and then an hour from now, picture it: we'll be camping under the stars, some good tunes, a few drinks, maybe a few early fireworks. We'll be having such a great time that this shithole or the shit back home . . ." Case caught himself, going quiet before his thoughts could wander or his words slip. "None of it's going to matter. Okay?"

Miles sank into his chair, pensively chewing his bottom lip. Good, Case was getting through to him.

"C'mon," Case added with a rousing chuckle and a playful bump of friend's knee. "We didn't drive all this way just to bail now, did we? We're here, we'll get what we came for, and we'll leave. It's fine. It'll be worth it, alright? Trust me."

Miles sighed, relenting to this white-boy bullshit, and the plan was back in motion.

Evan killed the lights and they stepped out of the car. They were a long way from civilization, the only sound coming from the cicadas filling the space with an electric hum like a livewire. It was dark but the moon was low and full, illuminating the clearing. Case took a deep breath, steadying the nerves that were beginning to rise. He smelled dry earth and residual sunshine. The air pressed in on him, thick and heavy with heat and the tease of a storm that may or may not break.

The trailer door opened, rattling on its rusty hinges. Case took the lead, walking up to meet the dealer. He'd spoken to the guy a few times online but never seen a face. He had a mental image – someone dirty, a white-turned-brown wife-beater, grizzly beard and neck tattoos.

A man stepped out. His large form – towering height, broad shoulders built of muscle – blocked out the light coming from inside the trailer. For a moment, he was nothing but a giant made of shadow.

Case got closer. His eyes adjusted. His insides tightened.

The man was . . . different. More put together, less fidgety than Case expected from a drug dealer. He stood in the doorway like some kind of guard or bouncer for a club, rigid posture and leeriness as the three boys approached him.

Well. This was Case's idea, so it was up to him to do the talking. He stared up at the man, hands in his pockets and squaring his shoulders. He smacked his lips. "Razzle Dazzle?" he asked, lowering his voice to make himself sound older, cooler. As cool as anyone could sound saying a fucking ridiculous name like Razzle Dazzle.

The man nodded, a single bob of the head.

"Case," he replied, lamely pointing to himself as if it wasn't fucking obvious.

"I wasn't expecting tagalongs."

Oh, shit. Whatever swagger Case had about him suddenly wavered. This guy's voice was deep — big, scary grown-up man voice, putting into perspective how much Case was out of his league.

"Oh, it's cool, man," Case replied, some wannabe gangster attitude creeping in unexpectedly. "They're cool. My friend Evan has a car, so he drove us." He pointed to Evan, who offered a wave. Miles stayed in the back, irrelevant but proving he was no trouble.

The man sighed; even the frustrated exhale sounded dark and full of bass. He drummed his fingers on the doorframe, contemplating.

Humidity stuck to Case's skin. He wished for some kind of breeze to cool the sweat on the back of his neck.

With an open palm, the man knocked on the doorframe and stood aside, gesturing for them to enter. Case looked back at his friends, his smile telling them see, I told you it would be fine. Evan seemed to be warming up, giddily smiling back at him; but Miles was still being a bitch. Oh, well. Not Case's problem.

He took the stairs two-at-a-time, shuffling past the man and into the small quarters. The air was different inside the trailer: stale, like a dust box with no ventilation. There was a dingy kitchenette made of paneled wood and yellow linoleum. Stained carpet with dirt trapped into the fibers. He kept walking to the end of the trailer, making himself comfortable on an ugly loveseat.

Evan and Miles sat either side of him.

The man – Case couldn't bring himself to refer to him as Razzle Dazzle, not after seeing who he was behind the screen – grabbed one of the dining chairs in the kitchenette and carried it over singlehanded. He set the chair in front of the loveseat, the metal frame rattling despite landing on carpet. The man sat with his legs open, his sheer physicality dominating the space.

Now that they were up close in semi-decent lighting, Case was able to get a proper look at the man. Truthfully, he looked more cop than he did drug dealer. Somewhere in his 40s, dark hair with a bit of grey in his stubble, the type of old-school Hollywood looks more suited for Bruce Wayne or Don Draper. How did someone like this end up selling drugs out of a trailer in the woods?

For a moment, the trailer was taut with silence as Case sized up the man, and the man did the same. The man's gaze intensely focused on Case, occasionally flittering over to Evan; he didn't give Miles so much as a second glance.

"Do you . . ." Voice crackling, Case paused to clear his throat. "Do you want the money now?"

The man leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. He held out his hand.

Case shuffled in his seat, trying to fish the cash out of his back pocket. The loose fabric of his jacket tangled around his arm, prompting Evan to awkwardly grab at him in some attempt to help. He pulled out a crumpled handful of cash, a few bills flying into their laps. The boys scrambled to collect the stray bills and handed them to the man.

The man sorted the bills into a stack, flipping through them as if he were counting. But his gaze kept lifting up to stare at the boys.

"Alright. I'll go grab the product."

The man made his way to the other end of the trailer, disappearing behind a closed door.

"Guys, I don't like this," Miles rushed to whisper.

Case groaned. "Christ, will you relax?"

"You're fucking paranoid, dude," Evan told him, sounding just as fed-up as Case.

"Why is he being so shady?"

"Because he's a drug dealer, and we're buying good shit," Case hissed back.

"He's a fucking cop! This is a set-up, I'm telling you."

Evan scoffed, putting on a mocking baby-voice. "What, is your anti-cop radar going off?"

"Fuck you, man! Fucking white boys are going to get me sent to fucking prison—"

"Hey!" Case snapped. He leaned in close enough for his whispered-anger to spray spittle into Mile's face. "You have been wanting to puss out since we crossed the state line. You wanted in, right? You wanted to get high and party with us, so get your fucking shit together!"

The door opened and the man came back towards them, three bottles of beer clanging together in his hand. He held out the beers for each of them to take, the necks of each one held between the fingers on his right hand. In his left, he held up a small plastic baggy.

There it was – the treasure Case had journeyed all this way for. His Holy Grail.

It was only a tiny strip of paper, but it was soaked with the most potent form of LSD. The God-tier of hallucinogenic party drugs. It would only take six salt crystals worth of this drug to give him a weekend-long high, the kind no-one at school had ever dreamed of.

Beaming, Case took one of the beers on offer. Evan and Miles followed, probably too awkward or nervous to refuse. The bottle was warm and lacked the familiar fizz and crack as Case popped the lid. He'd happily drink flat beer in a shitty trailer, knowing he was so close to getting his high. He took a swig, smacking his lips when he was done. From the corners of his eyes, he could see Evan take a small sip whereas Miles nursed his unopened bottle in his lap.

The man took his seat, his attention now honing in on Evan. "You're quiet."

Evan sat up, jumpy like a startled bird. "Uhh – yeah? No. I mean, this is Case's thing, so I figured you'd wanna talk to him?"

"What's your name?"

"Uhh, Evan?" he replied with a nervous chuckle.

Case shared a peripheral look with Evan. Something to say yeah, I know, he's fucking weird, but at the same time play nice, we don't have what we came for yet.

The man smiled; something that would be swoon-worthy in a film, but instead tied a sick knot in Case's stomach.

"Evan and Case," the man repeated, low and rumbly and dirty. "You two are buddies. Right? And Case, he's the ringleader?"

Case didn't like this. His unease was making him light-headed and woozy. He took another drink, the bottle unsteady against his lips.

"I-it's not – it's not like that," Evan replied. He'd stopped laughing.

"You're quiet. You're a follower. Do you like doing as you're told?"

"No."

Miles snapped, "Man, what kind of sick fuck are you?"

The man reached into the back of his jeans – so instant, so nonchalant that Case didn't even register the movement – and pulled out a handgun.

BANG.

Case gasped, all the air in his lungs evaporated. Evan screamed next to him – "SHIT! FUCK!" – but the gunshot reverberated in his eardrums, piercingly loud.

Miles's body landed facedown onto the floor.

Broken glass. Spilled beer.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

The man waved his gun between Case and Evan. "Get up."

Case couldn't move. His body locked up, seized with fear. It hurt to breathe – sharp, shutter-speed gasps that weren't sucking in oxygen. His throat was too tight.

Empty. His hands were empty, trembling. He'd dropped his beer.

"FUCK, OH, FUCK, SHIT!"

"GET UP!"

"PLEASE-PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!"

Something wet trailed down the side of Case's face. Tears? Was he crying?

He tasted blood. Miles's blood.

A hand grabbed the front of his shirt. The man yanked him forward. Their faces were only centimeters apart. Before, the man's eyes had been narrow and dark; up this close, they were large, round orbs. Blue. Blue like the ocean at night during a raging storm, and Case was drowning.

The corner of his mouth quirked into a wolfish grin; Case realized his lips were slightly thin. He chuckled to himself, a rich, purring sound from low in his throat. "Where's all that attitude gone now?"

Metal clanged against linoleum. The chair – Evan had tripped over the chair. But he wasn't slowing down, already at the trailer door.

"Shit!" The man threw Case back onto the sofa, holding the gun up to his face. "Stay there."

The man stormed out of the trailer, out into the dark, isolated woods to hunt down Evan.

You need to calm down, Case told himself. In a detached way, he was aware he was hysterical, the shrill noise ringing in his ears. Or was that because of the gunshot?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, gripping the overstuffed sofa cushions. But as the panic subsided, he grew more light-headed. His vision turned hazy, losing definition.

It hit him: the silence, the emptiness.

He could escape, too. He tried to stand, but his legs were jelly and gave out underneath him. He hit the ground hard, landing next to Miles. The carpet was soaked with blood now, the carnal, metallic smell reeked over the dust and mildew. Case gagged, unable to look at the mess. But he'd seen it – even for just a frame of a second, it was enough to sear into his memory like a brand – the hole in the back of Miles's head, bone and brain matter spattered through his black curls.

You need to move! His mind was urgent and shouting, but his body didn't respond. His limbs were heavy, his fingertips fuzzy . . .

Fuzzy . . . Fizzy . . .

His beer hadn't been fizzy. He drank the beer.

He drank the beer . . .

"Fuck," he groaned, his tongue thick and lazy in his mouth.

Alright – okay. He had a hold of his panic now, regaining some sense. You need to move, before whatever he gave you kicks in.

Except it was already doing its job, poisoning its way through his bloodstream from the tips of his fingers all the way down to his toes. He was drowsy, his brain slipping into the dark recesses of unconsciousness.

Wake up!

His eyelids flew open, and Case forced them to stay that way, too scared to even blink. The trailer door was open, swaying on its hinges. The only thing between him and escape was . . . his friend's body. He couldn't do it – he couldn't crawl over his dead friend.

You have to.

Case pushed himself up, stabilizing himself on his elbows. He spied a pair of car keys that had fallen on the floor. Evan's keys. Of course, Evan wouldn't have left without him. If he was quick, Case could grab the keys, run out and find Evan. They'd hightail out of this nightmare –

BANG!

A second gunshot. Distant, like a clap from the Blair Witch lurking in the woods. But Case knew what it meant, the realization settling in him as hopelessness.

Footsteps thumped up the stairs. Heavy. Heavy.

Case let himself collapse onto the carpet. Whatever fight in him, gone.

Blurry, black shoes came into his line of vision. The last thing he saw, before the drug fully took hold, was one of the shoes flattening the tiny plastic baggy.