The house was a sprawling suburban thing, all glass and sharp angles, and the front lawn was littered with red Solo cups and bodies. A girl in a sequined top was crying into her phone near the hedge. Two guys were arguing about something incomprehensible over the noise.

Maddy’s house. It had to be.

You pushed the door open and the sound hit you like a wave. Sticky, sweet air. The smell of perfume, sweat, and cheap vodka. A strobe light stuttered from the living room, painting the crowd in fractured frames of blue and white.

Rue was on the back porch, half a cigarette between her fingers, watching the crowd like it was a nature documentary.