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training, all the trauma you’ve witnessed, you cannot imagine the horrors he endured. For halfa year, that was his world. What do you suppose that does to a child’s brain? To his soul?” Glass clinks against wood as he sets his water down.
    I think about Steven. About his flat, guarded eyes, the restive way he moves, like a wild animal accustomed to being hunted.
    â€œI’m telling you this so you understand the gravity of the situation,” Dr. Swan continues. “You want to help him. I understand that. But trust me when I say this: the sort of help he needs is far beyond what you can give.”
    My fingers clench on the arms of the chair. “Then who
will
help him?”
    After a pause, he speaks slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “We’re doing all we can.”
    I blink, confused. “Then he’s been here already?” Steven seemed adamant about
not
contacting IFEN. None of this makes sense. “Is he being treated?”
    â€œThat’s all I can say.” He leans forward. “You understand, don’t you? Why it would be a bad idea for you to get involved?”
    I promised to meet Steven again. Whatever the facts, I can’t go back on that promise. “I understand,” I say, hoping Dr. Swan will take that as an answer.
    â€œPlease realize, I’m only trying to observe your father’s wishes. He entrusted your well-being to me, after all.”
    I nod, gaze lowered. An ache flares deep in my bones, in the core of my chest.
    â€œSo,” he says, his voice suddenly light, “any plans for tonight?”
    â€œJust studying.”
    A smile quirks at the corners of his mouth. “Diligent to afault. Diligence
is
an admirable trait. But remember that there’s more to life than textbooks and training.” The smile fades. “I fear, at times, that you’ve grown up too fast. You’re a seventeen-year-old girl. Spend time with friends. Have a few parties. Go out on a date, for God’s sake.” He adds quickly, “With a normal boy. And remember what I said.”
    â€œI’ll remember.”
    I take the elevator down to the main floor. Steven’s face flickers through my mind.
    Kidnapped. Six months in a basement, held prisoner by a serial killer.
    There was pain in his eyes, but something else, too—something in that hard stare, in the set of his jaw, that tells me he’s a survivor. And whatever Dr. Swan says, I don’t believe he’s dangerous—not to me, anyway. I want to help him. Father would have understood.
    Grief hits me in the chest, sudden and hard. I flinch. It’s been four years, and still, the pain keeps finding ways to sucker-punch me.
    I walk stiffly out of the building and across the parking lot, toward my car.
    Sometimes, I imagine that Father’s not actually dead, that the body in the coffin was just a fake, a wax dummy, and he’s out there somewhere in hiding, waiting for me to find him. It’s absurd. I know that. Many grieving people harbor similar fantasies. I’ll never heal and move on until I give up that irrational hope. But a stubborn, childish part of my mind still insists that it can’t be true, that his death is all some kind of mistake.

My house stands at the end of a street in a wealthy subdivision. It’s built from wood and stone, with a traditional peaked roof, and the yard is a sprawling, wild mass of green filled with shade and flowers. Compared to the geometrically precise houses and yards around it, it looks like something out of another time, which it is. It was built before the war.
    After Father died, leaving me more or less alone in the world, Dr. Swan offered to let me move in with him. He said living by myself in a house full of memories would be unhealthy for me. But I couldn’t let go of this place. It was—still is—my home, the only one I’ve ever known. In those long, black months, I battled