Janson luckily doesn't take a lot of time to get Minho inside the Shack. He barely looks at me.

Plus, Eli's clothes are the same color as my other ones—which are still, in my pocket, wet, hopefully drying—so you'd really have to pay attention to what I wore before to know I changed.

Then the door slams closed. I hear Janson lock the first lock with the key. The second lock that easily opens if you push hard enough is just a small chain, and the third lock, another one with the key, but all the way up the door. I had to stand on my toes to reach it.

Then the silence erupts. Minho sits down on the wooden chair in the corner of the room, and I keep my place on the bed, though my eyes follow him. He's wearing green shorts, wide with a sporty material, and a white shirt. His hair is messy, according to the list we still have to complete.

Well, I haven't heard Lyndon about it, nor Newt, so we're probably not very behind.

"You have the key," he eventually says. "And you went away for two days."

I try to hide my surprise, but it's hard. There is no way he saw me snatching the key away at the last second, or saw me escape.

"Lyndon wanted me to apologize to you, so I came here to do that, but you weren't there," he then explains.

"Or maybe you didn't look right and I just wasn't replying to you," I say, words snappy now I remember what he did again.

"I looked through the window."

"It's as big as my hand. You can't see a thing through that."

He shakes his head. "You weren't in here."

"You can't know."

"You probably would've replied with some stupid if you had been there. You wouldn't have stayed silent."

"I wouldn't?" I cross my arms. "You've known me for two weeks and two days. You don't know a thing."

He crosses his arms too, glaring at me. "Fine, then. Perhaps you can also explain why you're wearing different clothes."

I look down at them. When I look back up, I pull a face. "I was wearing this before, you idiot."

"No, you weren't. You were wearing a spaghetti straps, not a T-Shirt. And your shorts weren't as wide."

"Maybe I brought clothes with me and changed."

"They're boys' clothes."

"Who said girls can't wear boys' clothes?"

"They're not yours, period." His gaze sharpens, probably out of annoyance.

So mine does, too. There's clearly nothing left of the apology he was planning to give. Or the explanation. "You gonna tell me why you and Alby left me to spend two days here?"

"We clearly made an agreement that if Alby whistled and knocked on the door three times, Janson was coming, and we'd have to hide."

"We never agreed to that. I have never even heard you talk about that in the first place!"

"Well, then you should've listened," he spits out.

I was too busy thinking about Thomas's stupid words back then. What? No. Why would we do that? That would be ridiculous, unless Minho likes you or something. And he doesn't, as you've noticed. Not true.

Well, if he liked me before, he for sure no longer does.

"Where the hell did you get those clothes?"

I look back up. At his clenched jaw and sharper eyes. And I look back down, hoping that will get this stupid feeling out of my stomach. "Material."

"You know what I mean."

"They're mine," I tell him again.

What does he want me to say? That I messed around with a boy? Fine, if he really needs to hear that.

"They're not."

More irritated, I sigh. "How would you even know? No, actually— stop this whole thing you're doing. I'm wearing these clothes, period. Stop obsessing over them."

"Obsess goes too far—"

"Like, then."

"Don't like the outfit as much as what's underneath it."

My head snaps up so fast that it makes me dizzy for a second, but that could also be my shock. "I'm sorry?"

"The bed." He motions at it. "You could scoot a bit so I can at least sit comfortably, too."

Oh, right. Of course he meant that. I totally should've known. Not like that comment could've meant so many things.

"You thought I meant something else, didn't you?" A stupid smirk starts to grow on his face.

I want to slap it off. "You said that on purpose."

"Did I?" He paused shortly. "Wanna play a game?"

"No."

"Would you rather—"

"No."

"Word association?"

"No. I don't want to play games with you." I'm supposed to be mad at him. Pissed. Angry. I am pissed at him.

"Never have I ever?"

"I said no."

"Alright." He looks away, arms still crossed. "So what? We're just gonna sit here in awkward silence and you're gonna be mad at me for something I couldn't help?"

"Sounds perfect."

"Okay. Fine."

This is so much worse than I thought it would be. I know Eli's house is about an hour away from here, but Minho will know I'm gone, so it's not really an option. He might as well snitch to Janson.

In the corner of my eye, I watch him bend down so he can reach below him, take something, get back up, and start writing on the wall.

I had seen the letters before, but didn't bother to pay attention.

NOELLE AND LYNDON WERE HERE!

I roll my eyes, then continue watching Minho. He doesn't write a lot. When he steps away, I can only see "𝒴ℰ𝒜ℛ 𝒩𝒰ℳℬℰℛ 𝒮ℐ𝒳 ℐ𝒩 𝒯ℋℰ 𝒮ℋ𝒜𝒞𝒦"

I can barely read his handwriting, but I think it says it's his sixth year in here. So he was either twelve or thirteen when he first came in the Shack.

I can't help it. "How old were you when you got sent in here for the first time?"

"Twelve."

Okay, he's eighteen. Just like me.

"What did you do?"

"So now you're talking to me?"

My nails have begun piercing through my palms. "Fine. Then we'll stay silent again."

"Why is it so complicated? If Thomas and I, or any boy I've ever met, get in a fight, we say sorry and then everything is fixed. Why do most girls hold a war for like three years?" A pause that's too short for me to say something in. Then he quickly adds, "Genuine question. Not sexist, I swear."

"Just because," I say. "Moving on, what did you do that made you end up here?"

"Threw rocks at Jorge."

"I don't forget stones flying to my head. How in the world would I forget?"
"One, you're old. Two, I didn't miss, so I thought I caused you some brain damage that made you forget."

I remember their words from a few days ago. "Why did you?"

He shrugs. "Because I was misbehaved. Obviously there was a reason my parents sent me here. Now I only go here for my friends."

Yeah, because he's so behaving now! But I don't say that, since I just realized I've never really spoken to him in this more... gentle way. He's at least not throwing comments into it and I'm not hitting him for it.

"And the second year?"

"Sneaked my phone in and got caught."

"Third year?"

"Messed things up."

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know. Gally's nose... and eh, hurt Newt, and things like that."

I know he doesn't really like Gally so I don't have to ask how that could've happened, but I'm pretty sure Newt and Minho are very close. "How come you hurt Newt?"

"It was an accident—"

"I didn't ask that, Minho. You don't have to defend yourself. I only asked why it happened."

To my surprise, his gaze softens. "You're the first one who doesn't get pissed because I hurt Newt. Oh, and what was that?"

I frown. "What?"

"You called me by my first name."

For no reason, my cheeks go red. "Well, the last name thing was starting to get ridiculous anyways. Now continue. I want to know what happened."

"It was stupid. Newt tried to cut my hair, but it went wrong. I jokingly pretend to shave his hair off, but he moved and the razor cut him right next to his nose. You can still see the scar if you look closely," he explains. "And Janson had everyone convinced it wasn't an accident, so many friends turned on me for a day or two, then forgot about it. We acted like nothing ever happened."

Vaguely impressed, I nod, and crave for more stories. We can easily kill time like this. "Fourth year? When you were fifteen?"

"Sneaked out of the camp, but got caught."

"Fifth year?"

"Brought alcohol."

"Last year?"

"I hate Janson, he hates me. I made some comments. Was able to do it for about three weeks before I eventually ended up here. And now because I was apparently making out with a girl."

I can't help but grin. "Best reason."

He tilts his head to the side. "Probably the most ridiculous one."

Then it falls silent. I want to say more, but I don't know what. I just know that the more he talks like this—soft and not annoyingly—the more I'll forgive him.

"What did you do that made you end up here?"

"Parties. Drugs. Alchohol," I summarize. "Sneaking out. Making the house a mess."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Why not?"

Friends dragging me into things. Getting involved with drug dealers. Having to pay debts. Saying 'well, it can't get any worse now' and becoming reckless. Having no one who gives advice.

I think that might be why Amina and I don't like each other. Or I don't like her, at least. She doesn't educate me. I had to learn all of it myself. Lyndon is too innocent and wouldn't want me involved with everything, and Dad is just... Dad.

I guess I was curious and went to figure things out. Then got the wrong friends, and misbehaved.

Sums it up.

So I tell him some of that, but not all the details.

He nods, understanding. Doesn't say anything, but I can tell he's listening.

I like it.

Now just gotta make it through the night.