There isn’t much more to say or do after that. Feeling my way to the kitchen, I lean the mop against the wall where I found it and then I return to the hallway. I’ll clean up from dinner in the morning when there’s light. Or not, since I have no plans to stay here and it’s abandoned anyway. Besides, there’s a massive junk pile outside. Any mess inside pales in comparison.

To Mom’s chagrin, my half of the apartment isn’t known for its neatness. I hate the trip to the Laundromat so I divide my clothes into fresh, passably fresh, and doomed. The fresh clothes are in the closet and drawers. The doomed are in the laundry bag. But the passably fresh are stacked on the dresser, draped over a chair, and piled in the corner. At least I know what’s there. I don’t really know what’s in the corners of this house, even after prodding them with a mop. At best, spiders. At worst... “Guess we should sleep.” Granted, I can’t imagine how I’ll sleep here, knowing where I am, knowing what’s outside...or worse and more accurately, not knowing. But the doors are locked, the broken windows are fixed, and I can’t stand around in a dark hallway and worry the entire night.

I look at the door to the master bedroom. I can tell from the angle of the shadows that it’s halfway open. I think I left it that way when we searched the house, but I’m not certain.

“Good night!” Claire bounds into her room with more enthusiasm for bedtime than any six-year-old I’ve ever heard of. Maybe she’s excited to have her own room and her own bed. I don’t know for certain, but I bet she’s already slept in far more doorways and on far more benches than I ever have.

I stop by the bathroom first. Windowless, it’s so dark that I have to feel my way to the sink. I turn on the water, but I can’t see whether it’s clear or sludge. I don’t drink it, even though my mouth feels dry. Instead I splash my face and then use the toilet, all the while listening for other sounds—footsteps, breathing, anything. I’ll have to find toothpaste and a toothbrush, as well as clothes I can sleep in, if I’m stuck here any longer. I hope I don’t have to. Maybe I’m being a stupid optimist, but I hope this will be the only night I spend here.

Returning to the master bedroom, I run my hands over the sheets. I don’t feel anything like a snake or a rodent or a handsome, enigmatic, and infuriating man who seems like he shouldn’t be real and maybe isn’t.

I kick off my shoes, slide off my pants, climb into bed in just my men’s shirt and my underwear, and close my eyes. I can’t sleep. Of course.

I try every trick I know:

Think of something boring.

Think of something nice.

Count to one hundred.

Count backward from one hundred.

Curl on my side.

Lie on my stomach.

Flop on my back.

Twist. Turn. Flail.

I even hug Mr. Rabbit...but then I can’t remember when I moved him from the kitchen counter to the bed, and that makes me even more awake. I must have picked him up before the bathroom. I remember returning the mop...yes, I must have taken him then, though I don’t remember doing it.

I can’t relax. Every muscle feels as if it’s listening. I wait for a closet door to creak, for a window to break, for the front door to unlock, for the stairs to groan.

I wonder where Peter is. He must have returned to his apartment. Or gone to perch on more fence posts inside a dust storm, looking for more people like me. I wish he hadn’t left. He said he’d protect me, but I don’t feel at all protected. Eyes wide-open, I stare at the shadow of the dresser, the moonlit window, and the bedroom door.

The door creaks open. I freeze. My heart thuds louder. I don’t know what to do. All my waiting and listening and worrying, and I never planned what to do if anyone came in...

“Lauren?” It’s Claire. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” I think I sound normal. I can still feel my heart race inside my rib cage. It’s as fast as the flutter of butterfly wings inside a trap. I think of the horror movie scene this would make: little angelic girl in a tattered pink princess dress, barefoot at midnight, knife in her hand. “Claire, out of curiosity, do you have your knife?”

“I left it with Prince Fluffernutter. He was scared.”

“Good. Can’t sleep, either?” I prop myself up onto my elbows. In the moonlight, her princess dress looks like it’s shimmery white, making her look ghostlike. Her face is in shadows, but I see the silhouette of strands of hair flying in all directions.

“It’s not that. I just thought you’d want to know that Peter is here.”

“Oh.” I process that information, trying to decide what it means that he came back. He wants to help me. He doesn’t hate me. Or he’s bored again and has nowhere else he wants to go. Or he plans to murder me in my sleep and display my head as a trophy on top of the eagle on the post office in the center of town... That last one seems unlikely. I decide I’m relieved that he’s back, whatever his intentions. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Claire says, always polite. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night.” I listen to her pad out of the room.

I lie awake a few minutes more, and then I dream of darkness and unfamiliar stars and my mother in a crisp, white hospital bed with calla lilies around her.

Chapter Eight

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Peter squats at the foot of the bed like a raven perched on a post. His feet are bare and so is his chest. I stare, my eyes feeling thick and gummy, at the swirled tattoos on his chest.

He’s as beautiful as an angel.

Over his shoulder, I see Claire tiptoe into the room. She then lets out a squeal and launches herself at him. He whips around, and she tackles him in the stomach. The two of them tumble to the floor beyond the end of the bed, his coat flying around them like black wings. Both of them are laughing.

I feel an ache inside my ribs. It hurts like a fist clenched inside my chest. I can’t remember when I last laughed like that, free and wild, and for an instant, I wish I could forget home and Mom and work and my life and learn to laugh like that again.

I turn my head and look out the window. It’s streaked with dirt, but I can see the pale barely dawn sky outside. The horizon beyond the houses is tinted with lemon-yellow.

Of course I can’t stay. Stupid to even think it. Mom needs me, and a mob tried to kill me. I don’t need any more incentive than that to find a way home as quickly as possible.

Sitting up, I look around the bedroom. It’s coated in a layer of reddish dust—the dresser, the chair by the window, the headboard. The door to the closet is ajar, and I try to remember if it was open last night. I swing my legs out of bed and cross to it. The closet has a few suits and dresses hanging in it. I push them aside and reach in to touch the back wall of the closet. I don’t know what I expect to find. Secret passageway maybe. Narnia. The closet is large enough to hold someone, and there’s a pile of blankets at the base, curled like a nest, and I have a sudden—and crazy—suspicion. “Did you sleep in here?” I ask Peter.

Peter looks at Claire. “No?”

Claire giggles.

He’s like Peter Pan. A dark, mysterious, sexy, grown Peter Pan, who can somehow be dangerous and charming at the same time. I don’t know if he’s teasing me or Claire.

“You didn’t because that would be creepy,” I tell him firmly.

“He’s not creepy!” Claire cries. “Take that back!”

As graceful as a gymnast, he springs to his feet. His speed and strength are both clear in that single movement. “It’s all right, fierce princess. You don’t need to defend my honor. At least not before breakfast.”

Jumping up next to him, Claire claps her hands. “Ooh, breakfast!”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m not supplying breakfast—Goldilocks is, if she can find our porridge.” He grins broadly at me, looking as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Ready to begin your training?”