Seventeen days.

Has it really been that long?

Since he was sitting in the front seat of his brother's Impala, when suddenly the window shattered. The sunlight blared in violent streaks. The fragments were like a thousand ice cubes smashed by a hammer. He lost consciousness for a minute or so. But when he awoke, he saw blood. He cried out for his brother. "Jay?"

He couldn't even turn his head, a giant piece of shrapnel separating them. He wished for a strained laugh, a cough—something that would prove his brother was still alive.

But there was no response.

His parents have dropped him off at manor on top of St. Louis Heights, where the view of the island of Oahu is expansive and clear. Here, at Camp Heartbroken, surely he could learn to stop dreaming of the moment at ever waking second.

Soobin draws in a breath, taking in the scenery—the polished glass windows, the oak exterior, the three giant floors of the manor, the potted flowers. He knows how great the opportunity sounds. He'll be mentored by one of the greatest superstars in the world. Someone who knows how to translate pain into lyrics and melody. His dream to be a musician will come at least one step closer.

But would that even matter, if Jay isn't here to experience it with him?

No matter, he takes another giant inhale before the tears can come—as they so often do when he stops and ruminates. He unlatches the gate, walks across the flawless lawn, and knocks twice against the door.

He waits for an answer, just like he did seventeen days ago.