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strawberry yogurt. This was harder to eat with his fingers, so he mainly squeezed it into his mouth and then licked out the containers as best he could.
     
    Like an animal, he thought. I’m behaving like an animal. He remembered his father’s view of animals. One night, years ago, Dad had told Trey and his mother about seeing feral cats in an alley on his way home from work. Trey was pretty young then, but he already knew Latin.
     
    “Feral?” Trey had said. “Like fera, meaning ‘beast,’ or feralis, ‘funeral’? Were the cats dead?”
    Dad had ruffled Trey’s hair fondly. Trey’s knowledge of Latin always made Dad fond.
    “Very good, son!” he’d said. “The word can be used in either sense. But in this case, it means ‘wild beast’ Those cats used to be somebody’s pets, but now they’re out living on their own.”
    Trey was intrigued. He’d followed Dad around the rest of the evening, asking questions.
    “How can those cats live on their own?” he asked as Dad took off his good coat—the one with only one patch on the sleeve. “Who feeds them? Who gives them books to read?” In Trey’s world then, books were as important as food. And books were more plentiful.
    “Animals don’t read books,” Dad said. “They aren’t like humans. Animals are only concerned with surviving— with eating and ... and reproducing. That’s what separates humans from animals—our ability to think and reason. To do more than just survive.”
    And then Dad had exchanged a significant glance with Mom. That’s what had made the whole conversation stick in Trey’s mind. Trey hadn’t understood that glance.
    But now, remembering, he was ashamed. How ashamed Dad would be if he could see Trey now, not thinking, not reasoning, just trying to survive.
     
    But Dad, you never did tell me who took care of those cats, he thought resentfully.
     
    Trey squashed the three yogurt containers and put them in the paper carton that had held the rice and vegetables. Bravely, he inched his way over to a trash can and threw away the garbage. Then he scurried back to his cupboard and pulled the door shut behind him.
     
    Okay, I’m thinking now. What am I going to do?
     
    He felt drawn in so many different directions.
    “Stay hidden,” the boy in uniform had said on the porch. Why? Why hadn’t the boy reported him? Could Trey trust his advice?
    “I’ll do my best to help you,” Trey had promised Mrs. Talbot. Was that promise void now because she’d left?
    “I’ll tell Mr. Talbot everything,” Trey had promised Lee. But now Trey couldn’t even remember where he’d left the papers from Mr. Grant’s desk, the ones he’d wanted to show to Mr. ‘Talbot
    “I’ll watch out for Lee,” Trey had promised Mr. Hendricks before leaving for the Grants’ party yesterday— had that been only yesterday? It felt like a century ago.
     
    Mr. Hendricks. Of course. Why hadn’t Trey thought of him sooner?
     
    Mr. Hendricks was the headmaster of Trey’s school. He’d been in a horrible accident as a young man and lost the lower portions of his legs. So he used a wheelchair to get around. Last night, when Trey and his friends had witnessed a murder and were terrified of the muscular killer, Trey hadn’t even thought of going to a disabled man for help.
    I’m sorry Trey thought, as if Mr. Hendricks could overhear his thoughts. You’re so much more reliable than Mr. Talbot Smarter, too.
    All Trey needed was a phone. He’d have to be careful what he said—the Population Police tapped the phone lines—but he could speak in code. And then Mr. Hendricks would have someone come and pick him up, and Lee too when he arrived. It was that easy.
    For a moment Trey thought about waiting in his cupboard until Lee came—let Lee make the phone call. Let Lee figure out how to make “Come get us immediately!” sound innocuous and dull to phone-tapping listeners. Let Lee take care of everything.
    But as familiar shame washed over him, Trey