Bennett’s mother slapped his fingers away from the bandage. “Stop scratching.” Her eyes never left the road.
“It itches!” Bennett tugged his sleeve down, using the motion to disguise another quick scratch.
“Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” She steered through a turn with the palm of one hand, twisting the dial on the car radio through music and static with the other.
Bennett didn’t answer, but the truth was that he had thought of it. So had Scott. But when they got to the double-doors of McPherson’s Mill, boarded up nearly twenty years before but still a magnet for local kids, neither of the boys had cared. It had seemed worth the risk.
Even with his right arm bandaged from fingertips to elbow and Scott in the ICU for at least another week, Bennett was still convinced it was.