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tired to even talk. It was blessedly quiet now, and he slept.
    When he opened his eyes again, it was morning.
    Collin sat up in the sleeping bag. The early morning light through the small window made his cozy getaway look like the ugly attic space it was. He always tried to keep it clean, but this morning, he could see the splintery, wooden floorboards, and all the dust and cobwebs. He made out—just barely—the faint outline of light around the narrow little door to his closet.
    He remembered almost stumbling last night when he’d reached for the closet’s pull-string light. But he’d turned it off. Why was the light on now?
    The house seemed too quiet. He thought about Chance’s party last night. It had sounded as if it had gotten pretty crazy. A fight had broken out or something. Collin figured his mom and Mr. Personality were asleep right now. They probably wouldn’t be waking up for hours yet.
    He had no idea what time it was. Crawling out of his sleeping bag, he grabbed his pillow and staggered toward the small door. He still wasn’t sure why the closet light was on. He opened the door and ducked through it. Collin pulled the string and turned off the closet light. Then he moved on to his bedroom, where the tower fan was blowing cool air toward his bed. He remembered that voice in his Nazi dream: “Shit, somebody was in here. The fan’s still on.”
    He set the pillow on his bed and squinted at the clock on the nightstand: 8:02 AM . He stepped into a pair of jeans. Gazing down at the beige rug on his bedroom floor, he noticed some faint, crimson marks that hadn’t been there before. They looked like partial shoe prints—in faded, dried blood.
    With uncertainty, Collin continued into the hallway. He remembered his weird, vivid, Ambien-fueled nightmare from last night. All that fighting, screaming, the chaos and the gunshot, it was just a dream.
    But why was there blood on his bedroom rug?
    He never went into his mother’s room, certainly not when he knew Chance was in there with her. But he turned down the hall and saw the door was slightly ajar. Collin remembered his mother’s screaming and wondered if Chance had beaten her up last night. Chance hadn’t knocked her around yet, but Collin had always figured he was capable of it.
    The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open farther. The bed was unmade and empty. Some dresser drawers had been left open. The closet door was open, too, and the light was on. Boxes and suitcases had been yanked down from the shelf and clothes dumped on the floor. Someone had been searching for something—maybe drugs.
    Collin noticed the same faded crimson smudges on his mother’s pale blue carpet. He told himself it could be reddish mud or just about anything. Most of Chance’s friends were slobs—as well as potential thieves. They could have tracked in something from outside.
    Collin turned and headed back down the hallway. Stopping by the bathroom, he glanced beyond the half-open door. “My God,” he muttered.
    The linen closet door was open, too—and so was the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink.
    He started toward the stairs. “Mom?” he called with a tremor in his voice. “Mom, are you home? It looks like we got robbed. . . .”
    At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. Maybe the intruders were still inside the house. He stood there for a moment, feeling sick to his stomach. He backed up, and then retreated into his room. Propping open his window was a solid piece of wood—almost the length of a baseball bat. Collin grabbed it and headed toward the hallway again. Behind him, the window squeaked as it slid down toward the sill.
    â€œMom?” he called once more. With the piece of wood clenched in his fist, he started down the stairs. His legs felt wobbly again—as if the Ambien was still in his system. He nervously clung to the banister with his other