I wake in the night to the sound of a creak. I freeze and then I slither out of bed. We have a plan for intruders—I get low as fast as possible, and Peter— But Peter isn’t in the closet. I creep to the corner of the bed and peer out. There is a silhouette in the doorway. I see the shape of a man in the moonlight, a coat swirling around him. “Peter?” I whisper.

“I didn’t find him yet.” Peter slips into the closet without another word, and he shuts the door. I stand in the moonlight and feel as if a wave is crashing inside me. He didn’t find him, didn’t find him, didn’t find him. Slowly, I climb back into bed.

At least he hadn’t lied.

“Missed you today,” I say.

No response.

“You know, you don’t have to sleep in the closet. There’s room here.” As soon as I say it, I wish I could draw the words back as if they were in a balloon on a string.

I don’t want a relationship.

I don’t want to lead him on.

I don’t want to be alone.

He doesn’t come out. So it’s a moot point. Eventually, I fall back to sleep.

I wake slightly when I feel the bed sink down. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he lies quietly beside me. And we both sleep.

In the morning, there’s an indent on the pillow where he lay. I rise, shower, and dress and head to the kitchen, where he usually is in the morning. Only Claire is there, perched on the counter, scrounging through a bag of airline peanuts. “He left again,” she says. “I don’t know why you want the Missing Man back. Don’t you want to stay with me? Don’t you like me?” She has tears on her long eyelashes.

I hug her and feel as if my heart is shattering. “Of course I like you.” I have a burst of inspiration. “Maybe when Peter finds the Missing Man, he can send you back with me.”

Claire wipes her eyes with her fist. “Really?”

I hesitate but only for a few seconds. I don’t think she notices. “Yes.”

She throws her arms around my neck and squeezes, and I’m sure I said the right thing. At least I think I’m sure. We can make it work. Mom would like having a little girl around. And maybe we can find Claire’s family. In the time since Claire was lost, the police could have located them. They could miss her as much as I miss my mother. Leaving her could have been a mistake they regret, or an accident. They could be mourning her, and her return would be a miracle.

I look at her, and I swear I see a soft white glow framing her face. If I look directly at her, it vanishes, but it teases the corners of my eyes. My heart beats faster. “Claire—”

Outside, I hear the clatter of tin cans.

Our alarm.

Claire and I look at each other. We don’t speak. We each know our roles. Keeping low, I scoot into the kitchen, and I take one of the knives from the kitchen drawer. There are plenty of lost guns around Lost, but we don’t have any of them. I can’t practice with them—they’re too loud, and they’d draw attention—so at best they could only be used against me. Knives, though...we have knives. Knife in hand, I creep to the dining room window.

The tin cans were strung over the front gate. It could have been something as simple as a squirrel that set them off, or it could have been a feral dog. Or it could have been a person. Claire scrambles out the back window. She’ll climb up on the roof. If necessary, she has a brace of knives up there by the chimney, as well as slingshots and a few miniature catapults that she and Peter built out of scraps. She can attack from above while I handle the ground.

There’s a knock on the front door.

That’s...odd, I think. I peer out the window. Victoria and Sean are on the porch, waiting by the door. Using oven mitts, Sean carries a Crock-Pot.

“Oh, hi!” Claire calls from the roof.

I march over to the front door and yank it open. “Seriously? Do you know how many people could have followed you? Did anyone follow you? What do you want?”

Sean holds out the pot. “Breakfast!”

“Glad you’re home.” Victoria sweeps inside, oblivious to the knife in my hand, perhaps because she has a gun in her Gucci purse or something. I flinch at the word home.

Claire drops onto the porch. “Please say that’s hot oatmeal!”

“It is,” Sean says gravely.

“With brown sugar?”

“And honey.”

Claire drags him inside and into the dining room. She then fetches bowls and spoons for everyone. I hang back by the door. “What do you want?” I repeat. “Did anyone follow you?” I think of telling them that Peter is out looking for the Missing Man, but I don’t.

“You’re a suspicious one,” Victoria says. “I like that.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Guess you’ll just have to trust us.”

“Or I could leave.”

“Lauren!” Claire whines. “Brown sugar and honey!”

“And fresh fruit,” Sean says.

I don’t know why I can’t make myself feel friendly. I’m the one who said I wanted allies, and here they are with breakfast, a clear peace offering. But Victoria is smiling too brightly, and Sean’s face is flushed.

“We may have told a few people about you,” Sean says. I feel my heart thud faster. “But you can trust them. They know what you did for us.”

Every muscle in me is tense, ready to run. My feet want to scramble out the door. But Claire is happily scooping oatmeal into a bowl. “Oh?” I say.

“We wanted to, you know, give you a heads-up,” Sean says. “Also, oatmeal.”

“Uh, thanks. Claire, pack what you need.”

“No!” Victoria says. “Please. Stay. That’s why we came—to tell you not to run.”

I stare at her as if she has three heads or sprouted feathers or just said something shockingly absurd like not to run when homicidal townspeople could be on their way to visit me with scythes and pitchforks and a shitload of lost guns.

“Look, we’re on your side now. Our plan worked! The void retreated!” Victoria gestures wildly. “You saw it, right?”

I nod. It had withdrawn by over a mile.

“So please, trust us. Stay here. Make new friends.” I think of Claire and the ridiculous balloon animal and wonder if I can trust them. “Tell me what you would have scavenged for today. We will fetch it for you.”

“Um...more toothpaste? A decent amount of shampoo?”

“All right, then. We’ll see what we can do. Come on, Sean. Leave the oatmeal.”

He snaps to attention as if on a leash and trots after her. I follow them as far as the porch and watch them leave, and then I restring the warning cans.

I want to flee to the art barn. But I make myself walk into the house and sit down at the dining room table with Claire.

“It’s good oatmeal,” Claire says.

I nod.

“Are we going to run?”

I want to. But if I’m going to be safe here, I need friends. Or at least allies. Peter can’t protect me every second, especially if he’s out looking for the Missing Man. “No,” I say, and I scoop up a spoonful of oatmeal. Listening for the cans, I watch the window.

I don’t put away the knife. Neither does Claire.

A few hours later, we have our first visitor: the girl from the motel. Her name tag reminds me that her name is Tiffany. She’s in Goth clothes and has a fake tattoo drawn on her neck with a black marker. I think it’s supposed to be a sword piercing a human heart. Or a deflated red volleyball. Either way, it’s been smudged by her shirt collar. She’s carrying a suitcase that she drops on the porch. It lands with a thunk. “Dude, you have to do something about the landscaping.”

“It’s supposed to keep away unwanted visitors.”

“Yeah, that’s not working so well, is it?” She smacks her gum, then blows a bubble. It pops. “Brought you some trinkets.” She unsnaps the suitcase. Inside is a wealth of travel-size toiletries, including the toothpaste and shampoo that I’d wanted, as well as a toothbrush still in its package. An unused toothbrush!

I pounce on the toothbrush and cradle it to my chest as if it’s a beloved family heirloom. “I think I have a granola bar to trade—”