A little further out of town, we drive into what used to be a housing area: cozy lanes that now hold abandoned houses falling into decay. We drive past a row of houses burnt to a crisp, their blackened walls standing alone like charred tombstones, marking the demise of the American dream. I spot a square adobe house. The garage door is long gone and piles of fallen plaster litter the garage floor. Next is a sagging two-story where the walls have shifted and the roof bowed. The trees and shrubs someone carefully planted and outlined with stones have withered and died to yellow stalks.

The Sheriff turns down a particularly long driveway and stops in front of another adobe house. I stare at the matching white garage doors, both bent, rusty and cracked open like sleepy eyes. To the left, up a little walkway, the front door stands open. I peer inside to a dark hallway, my heart spurring up in my chest.

“Boys,” the Sheriff says, drawing his gun, “search the premises. No dinner guests. You got me?”

“Stay here,” Clay says to us as he slides open the door.

The men jump out. Ethan and I scoot to the edge of the battered bench seat and watch out the front windshield as the men slink up the sidewalk and through the door, guns drawn, faces tense.

After five minutes, Clay strides up to the van and pulls the side door open. “All clear. Come on in.” Ethan jumps out. Clay offers me his hand to help me.

I glare at his hand like it’s a viper and push past him.

The fresh dusk air is clean and cool after the smog in the van. I inhale deep. It’s the first free air I’ve breathed in a week. Then my eyes meet Sheriff Tate’s as he saunters back to the van for supplies. Not so free after all.

I take a step toward the house when Clay blocks my path. “Hold up,” he says. He’s got a pocket knife in one hand and pair of tweezers in the other. I gape at him. He points to my neck. “We need to get that damn transmitter out or they can track you. I can do it.” He looks down at his utensils. “Gonna hurt a little.”

I shrug. “Won’t be any worse than what I’ve already been through.”

His face tightens. Then he twirls his fingers in a turn-around gesture.

I face the van. He steps behind me. I feel the heat of his body as he leans in. “Close your eyes and count to ten,” he says in my ear. I try not to focus on his breath pulsing on my neck, the pressure of his fingers cupping my shoulder.