“I need you as a lookout,” he said, “even if you don’t want to get in.”

“I’m sure there are some things you want around town.” He nodded, with a slightly mocking smile, which I loved. “Can I turn on the radio?” I did, without waiting for his reply. I shifted the dial till I found a pop song. “Do you not think so far ahead?” a man sang in falsetto. “’Cause I been thinkin’ ’bout forever.” I’d forgotten the sound of fake-world music—the soft electronic layers, the drums.

I glanced up at Bay to see if this was all right. He was still smiling.

“So what do you want?” I said. “Potato chips? Twix?”

“Sure, why don’t you go off on your own little mission?” he said. I couldn’t tell whether he was joking. He gestured expansively at the little bungalows we were passing. Dice wouldn’t permit this, I was sure of it. But I no longer knew, after our conversation about my mother, whether I could predict Bay’s actions.

I watched the snowy landscape swoop by the windows. I admired the flamingos, gnomes, and plastic play castles in the yards, all vacant now, and I let myself imagine all the things inside the houses: lunch boxes and crayons, spaghetti-strap sundresses, Pop-Tarts on porch swings, and so on. All the many things to which I’d bid a permanent goodbye, without thinking it through.

“I knew you’d understand,” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether he understood, or whether he was yanking me around. “Now that I’ve been with the family so long,” I said, reminding him, “sometimes I just feel like I need to get away a little, by myself.”

“Not enough solitude in Ashland?”

He turned up a new road. Bay’s face was marvelously cool, roaring yet expressionless like an overfull creek. Meaningless as rushing water.

“Of course, Harmony,” he said. And he slammed down the brakes.

My heart split. The car that had been following behind us swerved, horn blaring. And then we were alone on the road. Everything was silent, except for the radio. I punched it off. I put my hands up to cover my face.

“I’m sorry,” I said, into my hands. “I shouldn’t have . . .”

“Have what?”

“Shouldn’t have asked . . .”

His face was trembling. All these months I’d never gotten a good look at it. I always looked at his lips, or his neck or chest. He was giant, rough, blazing. He was not beautiful at all. When he found me, at the bus stop, had I looked at his face? If I had, would I have come with him? He had hidden himself from me all this time.