We’re in Craig’s man cave, which is on the second floor of the garage. I thought the TV in the living room was huge, but it is nothing compared to the monstrosity in front of us. The room—the size of my old home—has an oversized U-shaped couch, a mini-kitchen with a refrigerator filled with soda and beer (which Craig made sure to tell me with a wink that he keeps tabs on), and every kind of chip you can imagine in the cupboards.

Sarah came up to watch the kickoff but quickly got bored, while Paula kept coming in to check on us but wouldn’t sit down. I couldn’t tell if she was curious how Craig and I were getting along or if she wanted to make sure I was still there.

“You’re welcome,” I reply to Craig before I put another piece of cheese in my mouth.

“And this stuff.” He picks up a piece of Wisconsin white cheddar that was like thirty dollars a pound at Whole Foods. “Amazing. You’ve taught me so much. Aren’t I supposed to be the one to instill life-changing knowledge?”

“You can show me how to avoid a sunburn,” I offer. My right arm had gotten scorched from the car ride to the grocery store yesterday. I never had to think about putting sunscreen on in the winter. And despite the blazing sun outside, it is winter.

“Hey, so I wanted to talk to you about a few things.” Craig presses mute on the TV remote.

“Okay,” I say as a pit forms in my stomach. There hasn’t been a single “talk” by an adult in the past several days that has made me feel anything but worse.

“I know things are difficult for you. They have been for Paula. She’s been so focused on finding you I don’t think she realized all that comes with you being here.”

He continues, “The most important thing right now is your safety and privacy. It’s probably best for you to have an alias for school. Paula’s name has been in the news a lot lately, so having you go to school as Allison McMullen might set off a few alarm bells.”

He’s right. Paula McMullen has been mentioned several times in every article; the photo of her tearstained at the first press conference when I went missing has been plastered all over the media as well.

“Do you want to think about a last name before you visit the school tomorrow?” Craig asks.

I nod, although Gleason automatically pops into my head. Allison Gleason.

“Or may I suggest Johnson, since it’s the second-most-common last name in the US behind Smith. I googled,” Craig says with a laugh.

Allison Johnson.

It doesn’t feel like me. But neither does Allison McMullen. Or even Amanda Linsley.

“Sure.” I relent.