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of my size would be giving off a
lot
of heat—more than enough for them to be able to track me.
    But not in the caves, I was sure. The caves were old and huge and went on for miles. And some of them held deep lakes where, according to the guide when my elementary class was there on a field trip, the temperature was the same all year-round. That would be the perfect place to hide.
    All right, God
, I prayed.
If you’re not going to change me back, at least let me get away from these guys!
    In some respects, that was a clever plan. For a twelve-year-old. But, being only twelve, I hadn’t quite learned how to think everything through. Sure, immersing myself in the underground lake masked my heat signature, but it didn’t occur to me that the soldiers would simply start looking in the place where the heat signature had suddenly disappeared.
    They tracked me, they found me, and they caught me.
    When I was about six or seven, Pa saw me kneeling beside my bed praying for a new bike. He’d picked me up, and sat down on the bed with me on his lap. He said, “The thing about prayer, son . . . Well, it doesn’t work like that.”
    I said, “But Ma said that God answers
every
prayer!”
    â€œYeah, that’s right, Gethin. He does. But, sometimes, the answer is no.”

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