I stare out the bus window, watching the familiar tree-lined highway, but the monotony of it only unsettles me more. I pull at the edge of the lopsided scarf Emily knitted for me last winter and glance at Ash, who seems lost in thought himself.

The bus slows, but instead of feeling relieved that the wait is over, I’m even more worried. Worried that I’ll find something at my house that will confirm that my dad’s in danger. And worried I won’t find anything at all.

“Coming?” Ash says, and I realize the bus has stopped and he’s already standing. He pulls down our bags from the overhead compartment.

“Right,” I say.

I sneak a look at the other passengers on the bus as I stand. They seem like regular people—two families, one with a sleeping baby, a couple of girls in their twenties with headphones on, and so on. But if a Strategia were on this bus, wouldn’t they blend in as ordinary, too? How would I ever know if we were being followed?

No one else gets up and I’m grateful; if someone from my town were on this bus, they would likely recognize me, wig or not, and badger me with questions about where I had disappeared to for the last few weeks. The entire town would know I was here within an hour and Sheriff Billy would be knocking on my door.

I follow Ash down the aisle and outside. The trees are bare and the air is freezing, even in the afternoon sun. I pull my hat down farther over my ears and tuck my hands into my gloves. The bus pulls away, revealing Spring Rose Lane, which is aptly named for all the wild roses that grow along it in the warmer months—a street that I’ve walked down more times than I can count.

“You see these roses,” my mom says, pointing to the bushes covered in pale pink flowers that crowd both sides of the street. “These are beach roses. Rosa rugosa.”

“Rosa rugosa,” I repeat.

“Here, smell,” my mom says, bending down and bringing one of the pink blooms to my nose. My face lights up and she smiles at my reaction. “Delicious, aren’t they? Wild roses always smell the best. You know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because the ones you buy at the florist prioritize their looks over their other properties,” she says like it’s a shame. “But these? These are hardy. They are strong and bold and even though they love the sun, they aren’t afraid of a little frost. They are edible and the leaves and hips have medicinal purposes. When I gave you the middle name Rose, I named you after this kind of rose, not the kind that makes a pretty bouquet but isn’t good for much else.”