So, Rafe had been sullen and silent during dinner, picking at his mother’s meatloaf. His dad returned this silence with surliness.

“What do you do at his house that’s so much better than what you can do at ours?”

Rafe knew better than to answer that.

When he’d eaten as much as he could stomach, he’d taken his sketchbook out of his backpack to work on a drawing he’d started that weekend.

“Son, stop doodling and help your mother with dishes.”

Doodling? Rafe did not doodle. He drew. But did his father ever once call it drawing or sketching or art? No. Always doodling.

“I’m busy,” Rafe said. “Why don’t you help her for once?”

Fifteen years later, he could still hear that chair hitting the floor and still see his mother’s face, more shocked than he was when his father leaned across the table and smacked him so hard his eyes watered.

His mother gasped. He could hear the gasp right now, ringing in his ears. Chair scrape. Chair hitting the floor. Slap. Gasp.

But that wasn’t all. His dad grabbed his sketchbook and flipped through it. He didn’t like what he saw. Burning with shame, Rafe watched his father tearing the pages out of his sketchbook. He couldn’t do anything but sit miserably at the kitchen table and beg his dad, Stop, please, please stop it, I’m sorry. I’ll do the dishes. Please…

His mother had sent him to his room, not as a punishment. He knew that even then, that she was trying to protect him. He’d run in here, slammed the door, and locked it.

Jeremy had listened without comment to the whole story.

“That’s it?” he finally asked. “The last thing you remember?”

“That’s it. Locking my bedroom door. I don’t remember anything after that until November, when I woke up in the ambulance.”

“And your father had the balls to blame me for us going missing after he did that to you.”

“He was trying to protect me.”

“From what? Colored pencils?”

“He just didn’t want me getting my hopes up, thinking I could be an artist for real.”

“That is bullshit, and you know it.”

Rafe said nothing, only flipped through his October 2006 sketchbook. When he found the sketch he’d been looking for, he carefully tore it from the binding.

“You want this one?” It was the sketch of Jeremy’s mother looking out at her garden. Jeremy took it and looked at it for a long time.

“Thank you. I’ll keep it with the other one.”

“What other one?”

He didn’t answer. He took out his wallet and opened it. Tucked inside, folded into the size of a credit card, was a piece of paper, held together by tape. Jeremy unfolded it and held it out to him. Rafe took it, studied it. Nothing special about it really. Just one of a zillion sketches he’d done of Jeremy at his house that year. In it, Jeremy lay stretched out on his mother’s baby-blue antique sofa in the music room, reading something, probably homework. He was shirtless in the sketch, but otherwise it was nothing but an innocent drawing of his best friend doing homework or at least pretending to do homework. Yet, while the other pages of his sketchbook had been ripped in half, this one had been torn into a dozen or more pieces.

“Where’d you get that?”

“You gave it to me the day we got lost,” Jeremy said. “You were upset, and when I asked what happened, you showed me this.”

“Guys? Dinner’s ready!” Emilie called out from the steps. Jeremy stood up and went to the door.

“Coming!” he called back, but he didn’t leave just yet. “You forget how well I know you. We’re like old cellmates. We know each other’s crimes.”

Rafe met his eyes. “What crimes?”

“We both know why your dad tore up your sketches. And it wasn’t because he didn’t want you going to art school.” Jeremy started to leave, then called back over his shoulder, “Oh, and the maps are in the bottom of the closet.”

Chapter Eleven

Katniss Everdeen had made it look so easy, but shooting arrows was not fun.

“All right,” Jeremy said, “this time, slacken your fingers and release the arrow. Let the string and the arrow do the work.”

Emilie pulled another arrow out of the quiver and nocked it—she had just learned that term. After nocking the arrow came the hard part. Putting it on the rest and then pulling back the string without it flying off and landing on the ground. She’d done that twice already. So far, so good. The arrow still sat on the rest. She pulled back the string, which wasn’t merely awkward but also painful, even with a shooting glove on. Then she released the arrow.

You release arrows, you don’t fire them, Jeremy had told her sternly. They are not guns. The only firepower in archery is the fire inside the archer.

Fire, release, shoot, it didn’t matter. Her arrow landed in the grass again.

“I suck at this,” she said, nodding.

“You do,” Jeremy replied.

“Is that your pep talk?”

“I also sucked at this once. I no longer suck at it. You, too, could be just like me. With practice.”

“At least I look cool. Love the glove and the arm thingie.”

“That’s called an arm guard.”

“Does it come in pink?”

“Let’s focus on your aim before we start customizing your gear. Again.”

She pulled another arrow and nocked it. Before she released it, he gently positioned her elbow six inches higher and back. Was her spine supposed to arch like that?

“Now try.”

“Why are we doing this again?”

“Good excuse to get out of the house so Rafe can talk to Bobbi about Red Crow. But also, it wouldn’t kill you to know how to defend yourself.”

“Defend myself? Against what?”

“The unknown. Now try again. Pull back. Anchor. Don’t release. Just let the string slip through—”