"Maybe, maybe not. I see one, I'm going to try and kill it. There's no guarantee it's going to be able to kill me," he says, this time with the uncertainty and none of the authority.

I give up. I don't like a single thing about him driving to Athens while I sit around at home. But I know my objections will continue to fall on deaf ears.

"You sure you'll be back on time?" I ask.

"I'm leaving now, which puts me there about nine. I doubt I'll stay more than an hour, two at the most. I should be back by one."

"So why do I have this?" I ask, and hold up the slip of paper with the address and phone number.

He shrugs. "Well, you never know."

"Which is precisely why I don't think you should go."

"Touche," he says, bringing an end to the discussion. He gathers his papers, stands from the table, and pushes in the chair.

"I'll see you this afternoon."

"Okay," I say.

He walks out to the truck and gets inside. Bernie Kosar and I walk out to the front porch and watch him drive away. I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling. I hope he makes it back.

It's a long day. One of those days where time slows down and every minute seems like ten, every hour seems like twenty. I play video games and surf the internet. I look for news that might be related to one of the other children. I don't find anything, which makes me happy. That means we're staying under the radar. Avoiding our enemies.

I periodically check my phone. I send a text message to Henri at noon. He doesn't reply. I eat lunch and feed Bernie, and then I send another. No reply. A nervous, unsettled feeling creeps in. Henri has never failed to text back immediately. Maybe his phone is off. Maybe his battery has died. I try to convince myself of these possibilities, but I know that neither of them is true.

At two o'clock I start to get worried. Really worried. We're supposed to be at the Harts' in an hour. Henri knows the dinner is important to me. And he would never blow it off. I get in the shower with the hope that by the time I get out, Henri will be sitting at our kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. I turn the hot water all the way up and don't bother with the cold at all. I don't feel a thing. My entire body is now impervious to heat. It feels like lukewarm water is streaming over my skin, and I actually miss the feeling of heat. I used to love taking hot showers. Standing under the water for as long as it lasted. Closing my eyes and enjoying the water hitting my head and running down. It took me away from my life. It let me forget about who and what I am for a little while.

When I get out of the shower, I open my closet and look for the nicest clothes I have, which are nothing special: khakis, a button-down shirt, a sweater. Because we live our life on the run, all I have are running shoes, which is so ridiculous it makes me laugh-the first time I've laughed all day. I go to Henri's room and look in his closet. He has a pair of loafers that fit me. Seeing all his clothes makes me more worried, more upset. I want to believe he's just taking longer than he should, but he would have contacted me. Something has to be wrong.

I walk to the front door, where Bernie is sitting, staring out the window. He looks up at me and whines. I pat him on the head and go back to my room. I look at the clock. It's just after three. I check my phone. No messages, no texts. I decide to go to Sarah's and if I don't hear from Henri by five, I'll figure out a plan then. Maybe I'll tell them Henri is sick and that I'm not feeling well either. Maybe I'll tell them Henri's truck broke down and I need to go help him. Hopefully he shows up and we can just have a nice Thanksgiving dinner. It will actually be the first one we've ever had. If not, I'll tell them something. I'll have to.

Without the truck I decide I'll run. I probably won't even break a sweat, and I will be able to get there faster than I would in the truck. And because of the holiday, the roads should be empty. I say good-bye to Bernie, tell him I'll be home later, and take off. I run on the edges of the fields, through woods. It feels good to burn some energy. It takes the edge off my anxiety. A couple times I get up near full speed, which is probably somewhere around sixty or seventy miles per hour. The cold air feels amazing whipping across my face. The sound of it is great, the same sound I hear when I stick my head out the window of the truck as we're driving down a highway. I wonder how fast I'll be able to run when I'm twenty, or twenty-five.

I stop running about a hundred yards from Sarah's house. I'm not short of breath at all. As I walk up the driveway I see Sarah peek out the window. She smiles and waves, opening the front door just as I step onto her porch.

"Hey, handsome," she says.

I turn and look over my shoulder to pretend she's talking to somebody else. Then I turn back around and ask her if she's talking to me. She laughs.

"You're silly," she says, and punches me in the arm before pulling me close to give me a lingering kiss. I take a deep breath and can smell the food: turkey and stuffing, sweet potatoes, brussels sprouts, pumpkin pie.

"Smells great," I say.

"My mom has been cooking all day."

"Can't wait to eat."

"Where is your dad?"

"He got held up. He should be here in a little while."

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah, it's not a big deal."

We go inside and she takes me on a tour. It's a great house. A classic family home with bedrooms on the second floor, an attic where one of her brothers has his room, and all of the living spaces-the living room, dining room, kitchen and family room-on the first floor. When we get to her room, she closes the door and kisses me. I'm surprised, but thrilled.

"I've been looking forward to doing that all day," she says softly when she pulls away. As she walks towards the door, I pull her back to me and kiss her again.

"And I'm looking forward to kissing you again later," I whisper. She smiles and punches me on the arm again.

We head back downstairs and she takes me to the family room, where her two older brothers, home from college for the weekend, are watching football with her father. I sit with them, while Sarah goes to the kitchen to help her mother and her younger sister with dinner. I've never been that into football. I guess, because of the way Henri and I have lived, I've never really gotten into anything outside of our life. My concerns were always with trying to fit into wherever we were, and then getting ready to go somewhere else. Her brothers, and her father, all played football in high school. They love it. And in today's game, one of her brothers and her father like one of the teams, while her other brother likes the other team. They argue with each other, taunt each other, cheer and groan depending on what's happening in the game. They've clearly been doing this for years, probably for their entire lives, and they're clearly having a great time. It makes me wish Henri and I had something, besides my training and our endless running and hiding, that we were both into and that we could enjoy with each other. It makes me wish I had a real father and brothers to hang out with.

At halftime Sarah's mother calls us in for dinner. I check my phone and still nothing. Before we sit down I go to the bathroom and try to call Henri and it goes straight to voice mail. It's almost five o'clock, and I'm starting to panic. I come back to the table, where everyone is sitting. The table looks amazing. There are flowers in the center, with place mats and table settings meticulously placed in front of each of the chairs. Serving dishes of food are spread around the inside of the table, with the turkey sitting in front of Mr. Hart's place. Just after I sit down, Mrs. Hart comes into the room. She has taken off her apron and is wearing a beautiful skirt and sweater.