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right. Whoever was in the pickup was scanning a handheld halogen lamp back and forth across the field, blocking the one and only road to the barn.
    The light hit the cab of the truck briefly, illuminating the man for an instant.
    “He’s got a rifle,” Aubrey said, suddenly chilled despite the heavy sheepskin coat.
    “It’s Lance Halladay.” Aubrey could hear the disgust in Jack’s voice. “I bet Ian Morris is with him.”
    Lance and Ian were two people who made Mount Pleasant a little less pleasant. They were only a couple of years older than Aubrey and Jack, and probably would have been in jail if it wasn’t a small town with a lenient police force. No big crimes, just a lot of public drunkenness and loitering. A ton of ogling and harassment, if that was illegal. Aubrey didn’t know, and the police didn’t seem to care.
    “I don’t think we should go this way,” Aubrey said. The boys weren’t out there to help straggling kids. They were there for . . . she didn’t know. The one thing Aubrey knew was that she was somehow like Nate Butler, and he’d been killed.
    “I think you’re right.”
    They backed out of the field, crawling on their hands and knees through the harvest-ready crops until they felt they were far enough away. Aubrey stood, feeling weaker than ever. Normally she would only stay invisible for a few minutes—fifteen at the most. Tonight, she’d spied for at least twenty-five, and then she’d hidden from the soldiers on and off for another hour as they swept the area for runaways.
    But there was nothing she could do about it now. Her only other option was to sit down on a rock and wait for someone to find her.
    “What if we just turn ourselves in?” Jack asked. “You told me the soldiers said this was for our own safety.”
    “No,” she answered firmly.
    He nodded, and Aubrey wondered what he was thinking. They used to be so close. She used to be able to read him like a book. That was less than a year ago, but it felt like a decade.
    They crossed two more long fields, her dress snagging on barbed wire when she climbed both fences. Each time it made her want to cry—the dress had been gorgeous, the prettiest thing she’d ever owned. Stolen.
    “Do you hear that?” Jack asked, stopping and grabbing her arm.
    Aubrey listened, straining to hear anything besides the cold canyon wind. “What?”
    “Voices,” he said, and then carefully climbed up the short embankment to the road. He ducked, and pointed.
    Aubrey was right behind him, and saw the shapes in the distance—three cars across this road. None had their lights on; instead, half a dozen flashlights moved violently around the makeshift roadblock.
    “They’re arguing,” Jack said, but Aubrey still couldn’t hear it.
    Was she losing her hearing along with her sight?
    “About what?”
    He shrugged, and then motioned for her to cross the road to the next field. “Can’t tell.”
    “Why would they do this?” she asked.
    “You think they’re looking for us?”
    “Who else?”
    “Terrorists,” he said, like the answer was obvious. “Whoever hit Lake Powell.” He scrambled down the other side of road. This wasn’t a cultivated field—just rocky undeveloped land. She expected him to offer her a hand, but he didn’t.
    “But what about Nate?” Aubrey asked as she carefully followed after him.
    “You know more about Nate than I do,” Jack said.
    “Hardly anything, really.”
    “I’m just saying—”
    She stopped, suddenly letting out her fear, disguised as anger. “I don’t understand anything about what he did.”
    “I don’t care,” Jack answered. “All I’m saying is you knew him better than me.”
    “Well, I didn’t know . . . whatever he was. Whatever he did back there.”
    “I don’t care,” Jack said again. He started walking, forcing her to follow if she wanted to talk. “I have no idea what happened with him. I’m just saying that the military has their hands full right now. They’d