Excerpt from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The End

HE STANDS ON THE STREET.

The sunshine gone from his skin, and hair a little longer than before. It curls into the collar of the dark flannel shirt he's wearing. I can count all the ways he's different under the light from the lamppost instead of the light from a summer moon.

But the look in his eyes. That's the same.

It hurts to meet them, like pieces of jagged glass pressing against my heart, so I focus on his hands. He's holding the journal. Worn leather that's pockmarked from water and pages softened by touch. I want to reach out and open it because I know on those pages are words I want to read again.

And words I don't.

"You still have it." I'd hoped my voice would sound surprised, but all I can hear is the sadness in it.

"Yeah." He says it simply because of course he still has it. And I can feel my heart bend and break in that one word. Like the spine of a new book.

"Why?" I ask, but really I hope.

For what exactly, I'm not sure.

Gentle fingers run over the word etched on the cover; the one I watched him carve with a knife in short blunt strokes as we sat under the stars. "I didn't want ..."

But he trails off, leaving me wondering. He didn't want what? Anyone to know about what happened?

About how he shattered my heart into pieces that bled onto those pages without my permission?

He didn't want his lie to unravel?

With a step forward, he practically whispers, "Maps."

"It's Atlas."

Bang. The two words are like a shot fired into the dark, cracking against the quiet. Words I know will hurt him. The way he's hurt me. "People call me Atlas here," I repeat—justify.

There's something different in his eyes now. "I don't call you that."

No.

No, he called me something else. A name that meant something different. In a place so unlike the one we stand in now.

"Please." It almost seems desperate. "Don't run. Not again."

But running seems to be the only thing I'm good at.

1

The Beginning

MY EYES ARE CLOSED.

I don't open them, even as the light filtering through the trees strobes against my eyelids. If I keep them closed maybe I can pretend.

Pretend that this drive is one I want to take, like it had been so many years before. Pretend that I'm with my dad. Pretend that when I open my eyes, he'll be tapping his tanned fingers against the steering wheel to the music.

But I know all the things I've been pretending aren't real. Pretending is just another word for lying. And I've been doing that. To my mother, to my friends, to myself, because this drive is something I've been dreading. And my dad is dead.

Things no one can pretend away. Not forever.

Most people say gone or passed away when they talk about my dad. It seems so gentle; almost soft and completely inaccurate. Cancer is never gentle.

I open my eyes to the reality I've been avoiding. My mother sitting next to me, her sunglasses a little too far down her nose and one arm propped up against the window as she drives down the windy mountain roads with sheer drops just off the side. I can't ever remember a time when she was the one who drove these roads. It was always my dad.

But the cliffs don't seem to bother her, which is a surprise, since everything seems to bother her now. Especially me.

I look down at my lap. The paper in my hand says WELCOME TO BEAR CREEK COMMUNITY SERVICE. Letters that are printed in a big, bold font feel a bit like handcuffs. Something I can't wiggle out of. On it are things like my new name, Maps—so clever—a rundown of safety requirements, dates of committed service, and an agreement.

I, ________________ , from the dates of 7/23–8/25 agree to respect the trail, my fellow hikers, and nature. I understand fighting, weapons, drugs, and/or fraternization with other hikers can result in expulsion from the program. Upon expulsion, zero hours will be awarded even if service is compulsory. Signed,

Excerpted from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer. Copyright © 2024 by Kristin Dwyer. Excerpted by permission of HarperTeen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.