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living room. "They had this at the Stop–N–Go," he said.
    They'd used the same photo.
    BOY FEARED DEAD AFTER PARENTS KILLED.
    The story was a little different but had pretty much the same facts, including the bit about drugs and the implication that Dad and Mum were criminals. I clenched my teeth as I read it.
    "It's rubbish, you know, about the drugs. Not in our home–never. Mum had an uncle–he was an alcoholic and he died of it. We weren't very well off – Mum wasn't working because she was homeschooling me, and Dad couldn't get proper work because they're supposed to hire Americans first in his specialty. To make the rent we were stretching every penny of Dad's salary. If they'd been selling drugs, think we'd have to live like that?"
    He tilted his head to one side. "I only know what I've read and what you've told me. And you ain't told me much. And what you did tell has some, well–what is your name again?"
    My ears got hot and I looked away. "Sorry. The newspaper has it right. It's just it was me they were asking for when they came to the door. My name. I–" I looked at the wall and squeezed my eyes shut. "They weren't after Mum and Dad. They were after me!"
    Never jump where someone can see me and never jump near home. I'd done both and Mum and Dad were dead.
    "Really. They wanted to kill you?" He raised his eyebrows. "Did you see something you weren't supposed to? Or is there money involved? Do you stand to inherit something?" He pulled a wooden chair from the wall and straddled it backward, arms resting across the back. He gestured at the paper. "This wasn't your average sicko hunting little kids, was it? The paper said the neighbors saw multiple assailants leave, so there was more than one attacker, right?"
    I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
    "They came to the door asking for you? Not your dad or mom?"
    "Didn't I just say that? It's not inheritance, though. And they weren't coming after me because I saw something I shouldn't."
    "Then why? This isn't the
Sudan
. People don't just kill kids for no reason. Even the sickos have a reason."
    "It's something I did." It just popped out of my mouth, without thought. My heart raced for a moment but I took a deep breath and said, "It's something I can do."
    Consuelo, working on dinner in the kitchen, stepped into the living room and held up a plastic bag with a few pinto beans in the bottom. "Sam! Necesitamos habas. Okay?"
    He glanced over his shoulder and said, "Okay. Manana compro?"
    "Tempranito en la manana!"
    "Okay–first thing." He shrugged and turned back to me. "What do you mean, something you did? You kill their dog or something? Piss in their pool? And you're going to do it again?"
    It's against the rules. He'd never believe me without a demonstration. So why does it matter if he believes you ? It just did. And they were Dad's and Mum's rules and they were dead. "Remember at the petrol stop, when you asked me where I'd gotten these?" I pointed at my shirt and pants.
    His eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Thought maybe you'd stashed them near the station earlier."
    I shook my head and stood up. "Consuelo needs beans."
    "Yeah–I'll get 'em in the morning."
    I jumped to the Safeway back in
San Diego
, where I'd gotten the crisps and salsa earlier. I got the twenty–pound burlap bag of pinto beans and paid for it in the quick–check line.
    Four minutes after I'd disappeared from Sam's living room I reappeared. The chair he'd been sitting on was on the floor, on its side. He was in the corner, pouring something from a bottle into a glass, but air swept around the room as I arrived and his hand jerked, spilling the liquid. "Dammit!"
    I hefted the bag. "Beans."
    He stared for a moment then took a gulp from the glass.
    I carried the beans into the kitchen and put them down on the counter.
    Consuelo looked surprised, then pleased. "Bueno!" She rattled off a phrase in Spanish toward the living room and Sam's voice, hoarser than usual, answered, "Si. Yo se."
    I went back in