“Well, that’s the South. You expected that kind of thing there. But we—”

“Everybody keeps saying we were so civilized, we never did anything ugly. But we did. Right here. We don’t have a halo!”

Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “Macey, look at this 1959 newspaper clipping you photocopied. It doesn’t even mention this teacher. It does not say arson.” Mrs. Johnson turned to the next kid waiting. “Josh. Where’s your outline?”

Austin had not called his father.

He had planned the call, he had imagined the call, he had even rehearsed the call. But he had not made the call.

He had considered returning to his old high school. He’d taken imaginary final exams in the principal’s office in Chicago. He’d gotten imaginary extremely high grades.

But he was here, in this house, with Grandmother and Grandfather.

It was Monday evening, and if Dad ever called, it was Monday. Austin hung around the phone like a little kid.

Austin was amazed by how much he loved his grandmother and his grandfather. He was amazed by how deeply it wrenched him that these two might have planned and executed an arson, expecting the man inside to burn to death.

I can pretend it isn’t them, he thought.

But he had decided not to pretend that his mother and father loved him, and he did not want to pretend that Grandmother and Grandfather were good people if they weren’t.

He ached for talk; he wanted to talk all night; he wanted to hear his own voice turning over every possibility, finding every escape route; he wanted to come up with a truth that did not include arson or grandparents.

He was sick with thinking about Macey. He wanted to escape that, too.

And maybe even escape Macey.

He thought of the Beedons, who had vanished into time. Macey would have hunted them down this afternoon, without him. What had made them get in the car and drive down Shell Road to help Wade Sibley? Had Mr. Sibley been glad to see them? Or angry that he, a grown man, needed rescue? Had he felt like a child, climbing into the backseat of their car, taken home to be fed and dressed? Or was he just glad to have friends?

And then Dad called.

“Hi!” said Austin. He was embarrassed at how glad he was to hear his father’s voice. “How are you?” he said eagerly.

“Okay. Not great. How are you?”

He wanted to be in the same room with his father. He wanted to see his father’s face, and if Dad had given up smoking again that day, and whether he was wearing the old gray sweatsuit he usually hung out in. “Okay, Dad.”

The conversation stalled.