When Logan was seven, he and Kendall took a trip to his grandparents' farm in central middle-of-nowhere, Kentucky. The first couple of days were full of fun and mischief: chasing chickens and stealing chocolate chips from the pantry—of course, only to be caught by the tell-tale chocolate smears around their mouths. Then, on the third day around ten A.M., a gray tornado swept up in the near distance.

Grandma and Grandpa Mitchell grabbed the two boys and hurried down into the cellar. Grandpa Mitchell barely had just the right amount of time to slam the door shut. The tornado howled throughout the house overhead, drowning out Grandma Mitchell's last-minute instructions and their screams.

Thick dust flew in through the cracks in the doorway, stinging Logan's eyes and making it hard for him to breathe. The boys sat huddled together against a heavy wooden barrel, coughing violently. Grandpa Mitchell threw his big coat over them in order to protect them.

Under the heavy leather jacket, which smelled distinctly of coffee and cows, Logan started to cry. Kendall threw his arms around him and squeezed him tightly, letting him bury his face into his chest. But it wasn't until the tornado had passed and Grandma and Grandpa Mitchell had gone upstairs to inspect the damage that Logan saw that Kendall had been crying too.

It was kind of like that now, except that he couldn't see anything. Here, under the covers as they tried to make themselves comfortable, Logan could feel Kendall's vulnerability. Uncertainty. He knew he hated not having answers. In some ways Logan was like that too, especially when it came to a particularly difficult math problem or an article about out-of-place artifacts he had come across on the internet. Or a best friend's sudden abandonment.

He squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't aggravate his backside, but he quickly gave up. The cot was simply too small. Kendall tried scooting over, but quickly threw himself back against Logan when the cot threatened to tip over. Finally they settled for lying on their sides; their noses almost pressed up against each other. Logan could feel Kendall's breath sweep over his cheeks.

"This reminds me of the time we went to Kentucky," Kendall muttered.

Logan smiled. It was as though they were connected by some sort of invisible thread, maybe even a sixth-sense. "You know, I was just thinking about that."

Kendall chuckled. "Figures."

The next few minutes were quiet except for their increasingly-growing heavier breathing. It was hot under the blanket, but neither of them made an effort to reach fresh air.

Logan suddenly gave him a light punch on the shoulder. "Kendall, you're my best friend."

Kendall punched him back. "And you're my best friend."

Of course Logan already knew that, but it still gave him a reason to smile. "Thanks buddy," he whispered. His smile grew wider when he felt a poke in his shoulder.

Suddenly a loud snore ripped through the moment. Startled, Logan jumped forward, his lips crashing into his.

Kendall's lips were soft and his light wisps of a mustache tickled him as it brushed against his upper lip.

Connected. Except this time, the thread wasn't invisible.

Logan pressed himself against him a little harder but a split-second later, it was over.

Kendall flung the blanket onto the floor and shot off the cot.

"Hockey pucks," he panted.

Logan slowly sat up and blinked, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Because sure, it was an accident, but he also enjoyed it more than he probably should have.

"We kissed," he breathed, feeling the blood rise up into his cheeks.

"Yeah," Kendall squeaked, looking back at him. He reddened.

Unable to stand the awkwardness, Logan shot a quick look around. It was a miracle—everyone else was still asleep. Even Carlos, who was usually the first to wake at any sign of a ruckus, was still.