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this man and why is he wearing so many shirts? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
    Not knowing what to say, Jensi pushed past her, Henry following. Istvan had dropped most of the cans into a heap on the floor. Now his arms were full of food from the fridge, some of it dropping and falling. He carried it out into the hallway, past Jensi’s foster mother, and into the living room, where he dumped it on the floor. He sat down cross-legged in front of it and began indiscriminately to eat, his eyes flitting from item to item, trying to construct a pattern.
    “I’m calling the authorities,” his mother said.
    “No,” said Jensi. “He’s not a threat. I’ll get him out.”
    “No,” said Henry. “You should call them.”
    Jensi heard the sound of his foster mother’s heels snapping against the floor as she made for the vid to place the call. He went to his brother, desperately dragged at his arm.
    “Come on, Istvan,” he hissed. “Stop it.”
    “I’m hungry,” Istvan said. “A man’s got to eat.”
    “She’s calling the police,” he said. “You’ve got to go.”
    “The police?” Istvan said, as if astonished. “But why would she call them? This is our home.”
    “It’s not your home,” said Jensi. “It’s my home. Please, Istvan.”
    Istvan sighed and stood up and for a moment Jensi thought he had won the battle. But then his face went purple. Instead of heading for the door, he went deeper in the house. This is my home! he was yelling, This is my home! Jensi turned the corner and saw his foster mother crouched in the corner, arms flung up to protect her head, weeping. Istvan was over her, almost snarling, spittle flecked on his lips. He watched, horrified, as his brother struck her. When Jensi tried to pull him away, he shook him off.
    Help is on the way, flashed the vid screen. Help is on the way.
    “Istvan,” said Jensi. “You have to leave. Now!”
    “It’s my home!” he said. “You go!”
    “The police are coming,” said Jensi, shaking him. “They’re going to take you away.”
    Istvan suddenly stopped, his face growing weirdly slack. “The police,” he said. “You called the police?”
    “No, I didn’t call the—”
    “Why would you call them?” he asked, his voice filled with a certain confused wonder. He turned and looked at Jensi. Or didn’t look at him exactly but rather seemed to look through him. The look reminded Jensi of that earlier time, when Istvan had tried to kill him.
    “You’re with them,” said Istvan, his voice a hissing whisper. “You’re one of them!”
    “No,” said Jensi. “What are you talking about?”
    “Get away from me!” said Istvan, and, reaching out, pushed Jensi hard in the chest. Jensi stumbled back, crashed into the wall, then slid the rest of the way down. “You’re one of them,” Istvan said again. “You’re just as bad as they are because you’re one of them.”
    “No,” he said weakly, not completely believing it, “I’m not one of them.” But he didn’t get up. He did nothing to stop Istvan when, hearing the sound of a siren coming closer, his brother stumbled past him and out into the hall, and from there into the kitchen and out the back door.
    *   *   *
    There were a few days when he couldn’t do much. First there was his foster mother to comfort and help off the ground, then Henry to calm down and straighten out his story with, and then, shortly after, the police. They questioned him—more of an interrogation, really—about the man who had invaded the house and assaulted them. Who was he? He claimed not to know. How then, had he known what his name was?
    “But I didn’t know what name to call him. I didn’t call him a name.”
    The officer shook his head. “You called him a name. Your mother told us,” he said.
    “She’s not my mother,” he said. “She’s my foster mother.”
    The officer shrugged. “I don’t care,” he said. “That’s not important. How did you know his name?”
    Jensi