“No,” he replies, resolute, “you deserve to know why I wasn’t—why I wasn’t in your life as much as I should’ve been.”

My dad’s face is scrunched up like he’s trying to remember something. I let him take his time, leaning down to unlace my shoes. My toes are swollen from where I kicked that Mog in the face. I start rubbing them gently, making sure there aren’t any bones broken.

“They were trying to rip things out of our memories. Anything that might help them hunt the Garde.” He pushes a hand through his hair, rubbing his scalp. “What they did to me . . . it left gaps. There are things I don’t remember. There are important things—things that I know I should remember, but can’t.”

I pat him on the back. “We’ll find the Garde and maybe they’ll, I don’t know, have some way to reverse what the Mogs did to you.”

“Optimism,” my dad says, smiling at me. “It’s been so long since I remember feeling that.”

My dad stands up and grabs his backpack. He pulls out one of those cheap-looking plastic cell phones they sell over the counter at gas stations and looks forlornly down at the screen.

“Adam has this number,” my dad says. “He should’ve called by now to check in.”

“It was crazy back there. Maybe he lost his phone.”

My dad’s already punching in a number. He holds the phone up to his ear, listening. After a few seconds of silence, he hangs up.

“Nothing,” he says, sitting back down. “I think I got that boy killed tonight, Sam.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I TAKE WHAT HAS TO BE THE GREATEST SHOWER of my life in that grungy motel bathroom. Even the dark mold that spreads from the drain to the curled edges of the rubber bath mat can’t dampen the experience. The hot water feels amazing, washing away weeks of Mogadorian captivity.

After wiping fog off the cracked bathroom mirror, I take a long look at my reflection. My ribs show, my stomach muscles pronounced enough to give me a starving person’s six pack. I have dark circles under my eyes and my hair is grown out more than it’s ever been.

So, this is what a human freedom fighter looks like.

I pull on a T-shirt and jeans that I found in Adam’s backpack; I have to use the very last notch on the belt to secure the jeans and they still hang loose around my hips. My stomach growls and I pause to wonder what kind of room service a sleazy motel like this might have. I bet the old man behind the front desk would be happy to send over a grilled-cheese-and-cigarette-butt sandwich.