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Ambassadors will not engage in recreational drug use or underage drinking.

Ambassadors will not receive any permanent body alterations not previously authorized by a parent/guardian. This includes tattoos, piercings, and surgeries.

Ambassadors will not engage in sexual activity.

Ambassadors will not engage in any illegal behavior, including but not limited to trespassing, vandalism, theft, driving without a license, harassment, or assault.

—From The Global Youth Ambassadors Handbook,

Section 7: “Program Expectations”

TWENTY-FOUR

Garrett and I ride in silence in the back of the cop car as it weaves through the streets of the Caving Grounds. My mind and breath are both racing as I try to calculate how much trouble we’re going to be in. I wonder if breaking into an abandoned, forest-covered town counts as a misdemeanor or a felony and what that means for Garrett and me. The car feels too small, the branches of trees clawing against its windows, as if the Caving Grounds know that a modern vehicle doesn’t belong here.

We reach the exit. The officer in the passenger seat gets out, unlocks the gate blocking the road, slides it out of the way, and waves us through. Once we’re on the other side, he locks the gate and gets back in. My brain begins grinding into gear, and I recognize him as Ryan Beltrami’s older brother, Tom.

“Stupid thing to do, guys,” the cop in the driver’s seat says, turning half around to address us. “You could’ve gotten yourselves killed. Good thing someone saw you trying to get in and called us.”

Tom huffs out a laugh. “C’mon, Jim. You know that the only thing remotely dangerous in there are the coyotes.”

Garrett lets out a soft breath of laughter at the irony of Tom’s statement, his temple pressed against the car window.

“You might want to take this a little more seriously, young man,” Jim says, shifting the car into gear. “Trespassing on private property isn’t something you want to joke about.”

He drives the two blocks to the police station, which is in the basement of city hall, and parks the car. Jim and Tom open our doors and escort us in. They show us into a dingy room lit by jaundiced fluorescent lights and tell us to sit.

“Are we being arrested?” I ask. The lack of handcuffs makes me uncertain.

“No,” Tom says, “but you’re going to have to call your parents and tell them what you did. They’ll have to come pick you up.”

Garrett groans. “Couldn’t you arrest us instead?”

“It’ll be okay,” I say, my phone already in hand. “My dad will understand. Eventually.”

Jim looks at Garrett. “You have to call your parents, too.”

“They can’t pick me up,” Garrett says. “I’m an exchange student.”

Tom laughs, but Jim lifts his eyebrows at Garrett. “Seriously? You’re still joking about this?”

“He’s not joking,” I say. “He’s from Atlanta.”

Jim looks between the two of us, and realization dawns in his eyes. “You’re Joe Rossi’s kid.”

I nod.

Jim’s lips quirk in satisfaction. “Your dad is going to be pissed. We’ll be okay releasing you without a charge, knowing he’ll be dealing with you.” Then to Garrett: “But you gotta call your own folks. Even if they’re in a different state.”

Garrett has maintained composure through all of this, but now he looks panicked. “Enzo’s dad will handle us—”

Jim cuts him off in a no-nonsense cop voice. “Call them or we will.”

I briefly wonder if the cops can legally make us call our parents now that we’re eighteen—which Jim and Tom might not even realize—but I don’t feel like I’m in a position to argue the point.

“I don’t have my phone,” Garrett says.

“Do you know your folks’ number?” Jim asks, holding a phone out to him.