The alternative—that Eve wasn’t crazy at all—just wasn’t anything Claire wanted to think about. She remembered the people on the street, walking fast, heads down. The way the mother had yanked her little girl off the street at a friendly wave.

“Fine. Go ahead, think I’m nuts,” Eve said, and sat back on her heels. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be? And I won’t try to convince you or anything. Just—don’t go out after dark unless you’re with somebody. Somebody Protected, if you can find them. Look for the bracelet.” She nudged hers with one finger. “The symbol’s white when it’s active.”

“But I—” Claire coughed, trying to find something to say. If you can’t say anything nice… “Okay. Thanks. Um, is Shane—?”

“Shane? Protected?” Eve snorted. “As if! Even if he was, which I doubt, he’d never admit it, and he doesn’t wear the bracelet or anything. Michael—Michael isn’t, either, but there’s sort of a standard Protection on houses. We’re sort of outcasts here. There’s safety in numbers, too.”

It was a very weird conversation to be having over chili and Coke, with an ice pack perched on the top of her head. Claire, without even knowing she was going to do it, yawned. Eve laughed.

“Call it a bedtime story,” she said. “Listen, let me show you the room. Worst case, you lie down for a while, let the ice pack work, then bug out. Or hey, you wake up and decide you want to talk to Michael before you leave. Your choice.”

Another cold chill swept over her, and she shivered. Probably had to do with the bang on the head, she figured, and how tired she was. She dug in her pocket, found the package of pills the doc had prescribed for her, and swallowed one with the last gulp of Coke. Then she helped Eve carry the trays into the kitchen, which was huge, with stone sinks and ancient polished counters and two modern conveniences—the stove and the refrigerator—stuck awkwardly in the corners. The chili had come from a Crock-Pot, which was still simmering away.

When the dishes had been washed, trays stacked, trash discarded, Eve retrieved Claire’s backpack from the floor and led her through the living room, up the stairs. On the third riser, Eve turned, alarmed, and said, “Hey, can you make it up the stairs? Because, you know—”

“I’m okay,” Claire lied. Her ankle hurt like hell, but she wanted to see the room. And if they were likely to throw her out later, she at least wanted to sleep one more time in a bed, however lumpy and old. There were thirteen steps to the top. She made every one of them, even though she left sweaty fingerprints on a banister Shane hadn’t even bothered to touch on his way up earlier.