The Greenwode Harvest Festival was apparently a big deal.

Yosuke figured this out from the posters appearing everywhere—taped to Miller's windows, tacked up in the school hallway, pinned to the community board at the library. Hand-drawn corn stalks bordered announcements about live music, craft vendors, and something called a "pie-eating contest."

"It's like, the one night everyone actually shows up," Calvin explained during lunch, tearing open his third bag of Skittles. "Justin's mom makes these apple fritters that sell out in like, twenty minutes. People camp the booth."

"There's gonna be corncobs," Adrian added, like this was the most important detail. "The good kind. Butter and everything."

Erik had already ordered his outfit from some expensive mail-order catalog—showed Yosuke the glossy pages during study hall. Crisp button-downs in fall colors, dress pants with perfect creases. The kind of clothes that looked like they came with instructions.

Yosuke had done the math. One shirt cost more than his entire week's allowance. The pants? Two weeks. He'd closed the catalog carefully, trying not to think about his dorm closet: Leon's old band tees (Nirvana, Soundgarden, one with a coffee stain), the stiff dress shirts Dr. Vestigues had packed that made him look like he was going to a funeral, Erik's borrowed blue sweater, and exactly one pair of jeans that actually fit.

His allowance envelope sat in his desk drawer, getting thinner each week. Hospital pocket money that had to cover everything—snacks, school supplies, the occasional magazine. Nobody had explained when he'd get more.

The festival was Friday. Five days away.

Yosuke found Leon by the bike racks after school, bouncing on his heels while some sophomore tried explaining a homework problem. Leon's eyes glazed over halfway through.

"Hey!" Yosuke jogged over, Erik's borrowed denim jacket flapping open. "You busy Saturday? I need festival clothes. Thought maybe you could help?"

The sophomore vanished. Leon's whole face lit up.

"Dude, yes! I'll show you all the good stuff. You're gonna look so rad—"

Something heavy and sudden stirred through Yosuke's body—like a pleasant shiver that started somewhere deep and spread outward, making his whole back itch. He reached under his collar, scratching awkwardly.

Leon noticed. His eyes tracked the movement, then dropped lower—hands sliding into his pockets, hips cocked, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

Yosuke watched, mumbling, "Uh..." Unsure what this energy between them meant.

"Cool, cool. See you around, space—"

"Leon!"

Karin appeared, all swishing hair and clicking heels. Yosuke stepped back automatically.

Leon's shoulders went back. Chin lifted. That loose energy sharpened into something else—California swagger replacing whatever had been there a second ago.

"Babe! What's up?"

"Cheersquad's waiting by the mall." She didn't sound mad. Just factual. "And Jerrell's hanging around Jess. I think he wants to get back together."

Leon snorted. "Guy's always been a player. Like, not only on the basketball field."

Karin punched his arm. "Oh my God, that was so corny—"

"Ow! You love my corny ass—"

His hand found her back, jacket settling around her shoulders. She slid her hand into his back pocket, fingers spreading possessively.

"Babe, you're gonna squeeze my ass off," Leon drawled.

Her laugh came out bright and genuine. "Come on, they're waiting for us."

They walked away. Leon glanced back once, mouth opening, but Karin whispered something and he laughed that too-loud laugh and kept walking.

Yosuke stood watching their backs—especially Karin's hand on Leon's ass, fingers kneading through denim. That pleasant feeling from before died away, leaving something cold and uncomfortable in its place.

Erik's jacket felt too tight suddenly.

He pulled out his penguin book: People change shapes around other people. Leon has at least three different Leons.

—

Yosuke arrived at The Mammoth at 1:43 that Saturday. Leon showed up at 2:17.

"Dude! Sorry, lost track of time." Hair still wet but parted crisp. "Ready to find you something killer?"

Inside smelled like sandalwood and mothballs. Concert posters covered every surface—Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam bleeding into each other on water-stained walls.

"This is gonna be so rad!" Leon bounced on his heels. "Reporters coming from Anacortes! We might actually get discovered. Pablo's been writing these sick lyrics, and I've been working on this drum part that's like—" He air-drummed a quick pattern. "Anyway, you're gonna look so cool up there watching us."

Tibe emerged from behind denim towers, blue-green hair catching dusty light. "You boys shopping for your big debut?"

"Hell yeah!" Leon dove into the racks. He pulled out a red flannel, holding it up to the light. "Check this out—total Kurt Cobain vibes! Everyone's going grunge for the festival."

He held it against Yosuke's chest. "Okay so like, Karin says warm colors bring out my eyes or whatever—but dude, with your black hair? You could totally rock this."

Yosuke touched the soft fabric, watching Leon's face light up.

"We could match! I've got one just like this." Leon pulled out another flannel, more faded. "Oh, and there's these ripped jeans that would look sick with—"

"Grunge is dying, kid." Tibe gestured to a different section. "That Seattle thing peaked two years ago. Hip hop's the new deal. Street fashion." He pulled down a rack. "Got some brand stuff from Portland. No Fear, that whole scene."

Leon clutched the flannel. "No way, man! Grunge is still huge—"

"Everyone's gonna look dated," Tibe said flatly. "Your boy needs something modern."

Yosuke drifted toward the No Fear rack. A gray sweatshirt caught his eye—BEEN THERE WRECKED THAT in wonky typewriter font, letters slightly crooked like someone had punched them out on an actual machine.

"See?" Tibe nodded. "That's got attitude."

"Dude, that's janky skater territory." Leon laughed. "Not really you, space cadet. The plaid's way cooler, trust me. We'd match and everything—"

Something in Yosuke's chest went tight and cold.

"I like this one," he said quietly.

"But—" Leon's smile faltered. "Karin helped me figure out what looks cool on people. She's got this whole system about colors—"

"Maybe I'd rather look like a janky skater," Yosuke's voice came out flat, "than the Canadian guy on the maple syrup bottle."

Leon's hands froze. The flannel dropped. "What?"

"The lumberjack. On the syrup."

Leon's face went through several expressions—confusion, hurt, then something defensive. "Dude, what's your damage? I'm trying to help you not look like a total dweeb."

Yosuke stared at the sweatshirt. He didn't know why his chest felt so tight. Why hearing Karin's name over and over made him want to leave.

"The gray one is fine."

Leon shoved the flannel back with unnecessary force. His fingers started drumming against his thigh. "Whatever. Spend your money however you want."

Silence stretched. Tibe leaned against the counter, watching.

Leon glanced at the Mickey Mouse clock. "Hey, uh—you got the keys to the garage? I forgot my mixtapes. Need to practice before, you know." He gestured vaguely.

"The big debut?" Tibe tossed keys over. "Back door's unlocked."

"Cool. Yeah." Leon caught them, already moving. "Space cadet, you good getting back?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. See you at the festival." He was out the back door before Yosuke could respond.

Yosuke watched through the window as Leon jogged down the alley, that restless energy turned into escape velocity.

"Dude does that when he's sketched out," Tibe said, bagging the sweatshirt. "Makes excuses. Bails."

Yosuke counted out bills from his hospital envelope.

"So, like." Tibe's voice dropped. "Leon and Erik clued me in about your situation. What you are."

Yosuke's hands froze. His shoulder blades started that familiar itch.

"It's chill, man. Totally chill." Tibe held up both hands. "They wanted me keeping an eye out. I run this whole underground railroad thing for Enhanced folks."

Yosuke's eyes went wide. His mind conjured actual railroad tracks underground, trains full of people like him commuting through tunnels. A whole secret transportation system. Where were the stations? Did you need special tickets?

He backed up a step.

"Whoa, hey." Tibe blinked. "You good?"

"There's a railroad? Underground? For Enhanced people?"

"Oh man." Tibe's mouth twitched. "No, dude. It's like, a metaphor? From history class?"

"Oh." Yosuke's face heated. "Right. History."

"But for real though." Tibe glanced at the door. "Do you remember? What you are?"

"The doctors said. Enhanced. But I can't remember anything."

"Fair." Tibe leaned forward. "Look, those reporters from Anacortes? Total vultures. Love writing Enhanced sob stories. 'Local Freak Tries Normal Life' type garbage. Don't give them anything. Keep those glasses on."

Yosuke nodded slowly. Leon knew. Erik knew. They'd known all along.

"Why haven't they told everyone?"

Tibe shrugged. "Why do you think?"

"Maybe they like me. Or maybe they pity me. Think I'm just a baby."

"Could be both. Could be neither." Tibe pulled out rolling papers. "People are weird like that." He paused. "Oh, and like—don't mention my side hustle to my cop brother, yeah? Ronan's already on my ass about the shop."

"Your brother's a cop?"

"Yeah, man. Officer Jansen. Keep it on the down-low."

"Okay."

The door opened—tourists browsing. Tibe handed over the bag.

"You're not a baby, by the way," he said. "Just so we're clear."

Yosuke recalled Wilkes's maternal wisdom from the phone call earlier. That's not a nice thing to say. Justin's voice: Oh the baby wants to join?

"No, I'm not," Yosuke agreed, his lips pouting like he tasted something sour, while the tusked clothing store shrunk in size behind him.

—

Wednesday was laundry day. Erik's laundry day, specifically — he kept a schedule taped inside his closet door, color-coded, naturally.

The Pinehall basement had three industrial washers that never stopped. Someone always had a load going, so the machines churned in constant rotation, shuddering against the concrete floor like the engine room of some massive ship. Overhead pipes sweated condensation. A single bulb swung on its cord whenever the spin cycle kicked in, throwing shadows across cinder block walls.

Yosuke's entire wardrobe could fit in a grocery bag. Erik's required two loads minimum — darks and lights, always separated, because mixing them was apparently a war crime in Sweden. Then a third for linens and towels, run on the hottest setting.

"Only way to actually get them clean," Erik said, adjusting the temperature dial with surgical precision. No fabric softener. Ever. Just an ecological powder from some Swedish brand in a plain cardboard box with lettering Yosuke couldn't read. It smelled like almost nothing. Leon's clothes reeked of blue Downy — you could track him through hallways by scent alone. Erik's clothes just smelled clean.

Yosuke sat on the folding table, matching socks. He'd volunteered weeks ago and Erik had let him, possibly because Yosuke was the only person at Greenwode who found sock-matching genuinely satisfying. Each pair rolled together, lined up by color. The towels he folded in thirds, then thirds again, the way Erik had shown him.

Erik set up the travel iron on the opposite table, working through his button-downs with long, even strokes. Steam hissed against pale blue cotton. He'd already hung two shirts on the pipe above and was starting on a third.

"That one's mine," Yosuke said, nodding at the school shirt at the bottom of the pile. Erik had written YS in neat permanent marker on the collar label so their identical whites wouldn't get mixed up.

"I know." Erik shook it out, laid it flat, and started on the collar without comment. He ironed Yosuke's school shirt like it was his own. Same care, same precision.

The washers churned. A sock slipped off the table and Yosuke caught it midair.

"Hey Erik." He kept his voice easy. Tossed it out between sock pairs. "Um, weird question but... what's the deal with those Enhanced kids anyway? They sound... gnarly."

The iron didn't stop. But Erik's shoulders pulled back — a fraction, barely visible.

"Gnarly, Joskey?" Polite.

Yosuke waved his hand, going for dismissive. "Yeah, like what actually makes them so different compared to normal kids? Why do they need to hide or get imprisoned or whatever?"

"They're still kids. They won't get imprisoned." Erik's strokes stayed even but his grip on the iron had changed — knuckles tighter, wrist locked. "Most Enhanced have families. This whole Mortercreek place is a myth. It's just a research facility near the Rocky Mountains."

"So why the tattoo?" Yosuke asked, quieter now, dropping the casual act without meaning to. "Why mark them as different?"

Erik set the iron down. Upright, precise, exactly centered on the heatpad. He smoothed the shirt flat with both palms.

"Because they are different." He picked the iron back up. "The technology's untested. Still classified. What if they all develop cancer at forty? Become carriers for resistant bacteria?" The steam hissed. He pressed a crease that was already pressed. "That's why Slater requires registration — so if they get sick, which basically never happens, they can get specialized health care. That's all."

His eyes met Yosuke's for half a second. Then back to the shirt.

"Okay," Yosuke said. "I think I get it now."

Erik finished the school shirt in silence, hung it on the pipe beside his own — two identical whites, only the YS on the collar telling them apart. Started unpacking the hot linens, shaking each towel once, folding with sharp movements.

He matched the last pair of socks. The washer nearest him shuddered into its spin cycle, the bulb swaying overhead.

He pulled out his penguin book and wrote between pages 78 and 79: Special Healthcare.

Then, underneath: Erik likes to Iron things.