“Huh,” said Toni, with grudging respect. “A man after my own heart.”

“He’s a plant,” I said. “Don’t get too attached.” Then I turned and walked toward the porch.

Jeff was tucking his tablet back into his bag when I walked up, having apparently finished the lengthy process of unlocking the door. He flashed me a tight-lipped smile. “You told them about the land mines?”

“I don’t think they’re too happy with you.”

“That’s fine. I don’t concern myself overly with the happiness of apes. It never ends well for anyone—not me, and not them.” Jeff pulled an ordinary key out of his pocket, sliding it into the deadbolt. “You hungry?”

My stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since breakfast. “I could eat.”

“I’ll make us some scrambled eggs. Come on.” With that, he pushed the door open, and led me into the house.

I’m not sure what I had been expecting. Something desolate and creepy: the kind of place that belonged in a dark, creepy forest, surrounded by land mines and trees. Instead, the foyer was decorated in a clean, minimalist style that could have been stolen from the most recent Hollywood blockbuster. Simple black-and-white photos of forested areas hung on the walls, evenly spaced, so that each of them had to be considered on its own merits. The floor and walls were hardwood, and while they were stained and sealed, nothing was painted.

“It’s all eco-friendly,” said Jeff, looking over his shoulder at me. “I’m off the power grid entirely, thanks to the solar panels on the roof, and I get my water from a natural aquifer. I’m connected to the municipal gas lines and I get my internet from the cable company like everybody else, but that’s it for me and dependence on the local grid. If I had to, I could stay out here for six months at a stretch without needing to pay a bill or see an inspector. It’s a pretty sweet gig.”

“Where are your parents?”

His shrug was fluid. “Ultimatum when I turned sixteen: stop telling everyone I was an alien, or find someplace else to live. You know how that story ends.”

“Yeah. I do.” No one can be ordered out of a compulsion; that’s not how compulsions work. If it were, there would be a lot fewer compulsive people in the world. So his parents had told him to stop or get out, and he’d gotten out. I would have done the same thing in his situation. I sort of had: my mother never quite said I needed to change my song or leave her home, but she’d implied it. She’d whispered it when she didn’t think I was listening, trying to convince my grandparents this was “tough love.” Like the way to make me normal was to forbid me to be strange.