“No,” Solomon said. “They’re jackalopes. Harmless scavengers.” He got down on the floor, curled up into the smallest ball he could.

As soon as I pulled into the driveway, I knew at once that all my preparations were insufficient. Woefully inadequate. Because Mr. Barrett’s car was parked in our driveway.

Which, of course it was. Because he’d known that sooner or later I’d have to come home. Because finding Solomon was his number one priority. Because he was afraid of Solomon. What Solomon could say, what he could do.

But, as far as he knew, only Solomon knew the truth of his crimes. I hadn’t said a word in all that time. He believed I had completely forgotten. I needed to make him think I still had.

So I sat in my car in the driveway and took ten deep breaths, and then went inside.

“Ash!” my parents exclaimed, when I slammed the door shut, intentionally too loudly, so they’d come running. Which they did.

“Hey, guys,” I said, making my face expressionless, making my voice sad.

They saw I was okay. They hugged me. And then they got mad. Assaulted me with questions, one on top of the other.

“Where the hell have you been—”

“We called a hundred times—”

“Left you a million messages—”

“This bad weather—”

“Anything could have happened—”

“All kinds of awful car accidents—”

“Super sorry,” I said, and took out my phone. “It got soaking wet, out in the rain. I had to turn it off. Take the battery out. Wait for it to dry.”

This mollified them slightly. An explanation was all they needed. Even a kinda stupid one.

“Hello, Ash,” Mr. Barrett said, stepping out of the living room. Looking concerned . . . but also looking intimidating. The smell of beer was in the air; baseball gabbed from the television. They’d been sitting around, probably for hours.

“George was telling us what happened,” Mom said.

“What you did was very irresponsible,” Dad said.

“What?” I said, eyes wide, all innocence. “What did I do?”

“Solomon was signed over into my custody,” Mr. Barrett said. “You were wrong to take him.”

“I am so sorry,” I said, eyes sad, truly penitent. “But maybe I misunderstood. I thought you said no charges were filed. So he couldn’t even have been technically under arrest. So . . . why would he need to be in anyone’s custody?”

He frowned. And my father tilted his head slightly. Only I, and maybe my mother, knew that’s what Dad did when something didn’t quite add up. “Not formal custody,” Mr. Barrett said. “But they released him into my care. I felt a sense of responsibility. I was very worried.”

“He wanted french fries,” I said. “He said you hated McDonald’s”—this was true—“and would never ever take him or Connor there.” Also true. “He asked me to take him. Nothing wrong with that, right?”