“That was probably the worst idea you’ve ever had… and yet it worked,” I tell Anthony.

Anthony just looks back at me as he says, “You should trust me more.”

“Oh shut up.” I stare at the gate, and then his burnt hands. “Do they still hurt?” I ask him.

Anthony stuffs the hot-glue key in his pocket. “No. Not really.” He pulls his hair back. “I still don’t see why you never trust me, Birdy.” He tells me. Birdy. The name he’s tortured me with for years now.

“Because, your ideas usually end up working out terribly.” I respond. I don’t even bother with trying to get him to say my name. I take a deep breath before pushing the gate door open. It creaks with years of neglect and layers of dust.