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with broad front porches to modern wood and glass contraptions with solar panels and hot-tub decks. As the numbers decreased, from twenty-six to twenty to fifteen, the space between the homes grew greater and greater, and less and less could be seen through the trees and thick foliage.
    “Not a lot of low-income housing out here,” Peter remarked.
    “There's a twelve, on that gatepost,” said Meg with barely suppressed excitement. “Ten can't be far off.”
    The road suddenly dipped into a pocket of shadow and swerved sharply to the right. Peter had been looking back at the last gatepost, and when he turned his head he saw an open jeep with a gleaming steel roll-bar hurtling over the incline and straight down at them. A boy in a shiny silver windbreaker twisted the wheel; two or three other teenagers grabbed at the seats and dashboard. Peter slammed on the brakes and, throwing one arm across Meg, used the other to steer the skidding car off the road. Branches and leaves and rocks crunched beneath the tires. The jeep flashed past them, with a thump of tires reconnecting with the pavement, and a loud blast of its horn. One of those gimmicky horns, playing the bugle call that announces the start of a horse race. The last few notes trailed off down the road behind them. Peter felt the right front tire of their car bump to a halt against the rising shoulder of the road. Meg was rigid in her seat,eyes closed, all the color drained from her face. One of her arms was extended against the dash, the other wrapped protectively across her stomach.
    “It's okay,” he whispered in relief, leaning toward her and taking hold of the arm she instinctively held, still, across her abdomen. “It's okay—we're okay.”
    She dropped her hand from the dashboard and almost imperceptibly let out her breath. She opened her eyes slowly, looking straight ahead with a glazed, unfocused expression. Peter knew what it was she was seeing again, what she was feeling. He knew that, in her mind's eye, it was a cold, starless night, not a warm, sunny day. In his own left arm, he felt the sharp, shooting pain that he'd awakened to that night. “It's okay, honey. No damage done. None. We're okay,” and he stopped himself short just before adding “this time.” But the words hovered in the air just as if he'd said them.
    Meg gradually appeared to come back to life; she squeezed his hand with her own and, without saying anything, put her face to his shoulder, pressing her lips in a silent kiss against the fabric of his shirt. After a few seconds, she pulled herself back, brushed the hair away from her eyes, and said, with as much spirit as she could muster, “Well, what do you say we get going. Or are we stuck?”
    “I don't think so,” he said, still studying her to be sure she was all right. He put the car into reverse; the tires spun in the loose dirt and undergrowth before catching hold. He backed up a few yards, then straightened out and pulled back onto the road.
    “Are you okay?” she asked in a soft, unsteady voice.
    “Who, me? I'm fine,” he said. “I was just testing my reflexes back there.” He smiled weakly.
    They drove along slowly, scanning the thick wall of trees and brush for any sign of a mailbox, driveway, or gate. The road ran straighter now, with sunlight onlyoccasionally breaking through the tangle of branches overhead. But even after driving the distance of a few generous city blocks, they still had seen no opening or address. The foliage, wilder and denser than it had been anywhere farther up the road, offered no glimpse of a house or garage or signpost. At one point, where there was a small break in the trees, Meg thought she saw, about ten feet in from the shoulder, a strand of black barbed wire strung along parallel tothe road. At another spot, where the sunlight managed to pierce the overhanging boughs, she saw it clearly, at the same height—only this time, she could see it was one of four or five strands running