“Liberty is much better then where I was before,” Francisco says.
“Where were you before?”
“In hell.”
Francisco turns the corner, and I recognize the neighborhood near the house where I prepped with Father yesterday.
“You said you lived near here, right?” Francisco says.
“You can let me off at Cumberland Farms up here. I’m going to grab something to eat before I go home. You guys had me so busy, I didn’t get any food. Except for that stale trail mix you gave me last night.”
Francisco grins.
“We’ll feed you plenty when you come back,” he says. “If you come back.”
“I’m coming back,” I say. “Believe it.”
He pulls into the parking lot and stops the car.
“Door-to-door service,” he says.
I sit there for a moment without saying anything. I hated Francisco at first, but I’m beginning to feel differently about him now.
He says, “Can you find your way back to camp, or do you need a pickup?”
“I’ll probably drive myself back.”
“Stop at the roadblock when you get there. I’ll tell them to look out for you.”
“Thanks, Francisco.”
I get out of the truck and head into Cumberland Farms.
From inside the store, I watch him pull out of the parking lot and head down the road.
I look at the neighborhood outside. I spent the afternoon in this neighborhood—was it really only two days ago?
Thursday night the soldiers came for me. Friday night I was at the recruiting event with Moore. Saturday night was The Hunt. Now it’s midday Sunday.
It seems like more time has passed, but that’s one of the effects of sleep deprivation. Fatigue degrades cognition, dulls the sense, slows decision-making processes, and distorts perception. A minute can seem to stand still, yet things that occur slowly can pass you by.
I buy several carbohydrate drinks and a handful of protein bars. When I get out of the store, I stand under a tree out of the line of sight from the road. What I really need is a good meal and a full night’s sleep, but this will have to do.
I slowly chew a bar, interspersing it with swallows of carb drink. In this way I refuel, allowing my strength to return and some of my focus.
I take out my iPhone and put it in secure mode. Here, away from the camp, the digital blocking, the obstruction of the mountains, away from all the possible means of interference, I can truly test it.
I dial the prearranged number, Father’s secure active number for this assignment.
I will inform Father that I am bound for the safe house. He may be there waiting for me already. If not, he will be there soon to meet me.
I’ll have to explain the reasons that I went into the camp. Father may be unhappy at first, but once I tell him what I’ve learned there and how close I’ve come to Moore, I’m sure he will reward my initiative. Besides, the mission is more critical than ever now that I have a sense of the gravity of Moore’s plans.
I hear three rings through my phone followed by a click. The line goes dead.
I start again, this time trying Father’s public number.
There’s no answer.
I don’t know what’s happened to Father’s communication ability, but I know our fallback procedure.
We are supposed to liaise at the house after the mission.
I finish off the last of the protein bars, and I head down the street to the protection of the safe house.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I SCOPE THE NEIGHBORHOOD AS I GO, CHECKING FOR ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY.
The neighborhood is quiet. A normal Sunday afternoon, nothing that flags my suspicions.
I proceed down the street until I come to the familiar white-and-yellow house.
Number 578. Same silver Escape in the driveway.
I move with the relaxed energy of a kid coming home after a morning hanging out with friends. I walk up the stone path to the front door and turn the knob.
It’s locked.
I try it again in a different direction. Still locked.
Strange.
I walk around the side, look in a window. I’m expecting the electromagnetic film to prevent my seeing in, but that’s not the case. I’m staring at a set of vases over the mantel place.
Suddenly the front door opens.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says.
I whirl around, preparing to meet the challenge.
I find myself looking at an attractive thirty-five-year-old woman in jeans and an oversized sweater. No threat to me. Just a little agitated to find a boy standing in her flower bed.
I collapse my posture into the slouch of a low-key teen boy.
“Who are you?” she says.
“Who are you?” I say with a shrug.
We look at each other.
“I’m the woman who owns this house. You’re a kid sneaking around my yard.”
“I’m not sneaking,” I say. “I’m looking for my dad.”
“Your dad?”
“He lives here.”
“I’m sorry. You’re mistaken.”
A man I’ve never seen comes to the door. He puts a protective arm around her.
“What’s going on, honey?”
“This boy seems to think he lives here.”
“This is our house,” the husband says, his voice cautious but friendly, still wanting to clear up the misunderstanding. “I should know. I pay the mortgage every month.”
“It wasn’t your house two days ago,” I say.
“It’s been our house for six years,” the husband says.
I look at the number again. 578.
Correct street, correct number.
“Are you sure it’s your house?” I say.
I watch carefully, waiting for them to break character, show themselves to be operatives for The Program, maybe a recovery crew of some kind. I wait for the nod inviting me in to safety.
But there is no nod. These people seem like the real thing.
I feel the confusion growing inside me.
That’s when I see their skin appears darker than it should be for this part of the country, even in the summer.
“Why do you have tans?” I say.
The husband looks at me strangely. It was a stupid thing for me to say, but I’m not thinking clearly.
“We won a trip to the Caribbean,” the husband says. “We were on vacation, and we just got back. Not that it’s any business of yours.”
“I’m confused,” I say.
My mind is racing, trying to put together the lack of communication from The Program, the strange circumstances at the safe house, any of it, all of it.
They must see that something’s wrong, because the woman says, “Are you feeling all right?”
I don’t like how she’s looking at me. Like I’m a lost kid of some kind.
“Do you want to come in for a minute?” the wife says.
“Hang on,” the husband says. “We don’t know who this is.”
“He needs some help.”
“Then we should call the police.”
“We don’t need the police,” the wife says, like her husband is being ridiculous.
“Maybe he’s on drugs,” the husband says.
I can’t allow the police to become involved. That would be a mistake. I have to pull myself together.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I made a mistake. We just moved to Manchester. All the streets look alike.”
“Come in for a minute,” the wife says. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“No,” I say.
“Please.”
Something about her draws me in. The warmth of her voice or the way she smiles at me like she’s concerned. I’m not sure which.
“Maybe I’ll come inside,” I say.
Not only do I need a drink of water, it would be a good idea for me to go inside and look around the house, make sure I’m not mistaken about the location. I can buy myself some time to analyze the situation and figure out my next move.