A part of me is worried that Mom will ground me over the phone, and part of me is worried that the sound of her voice will make me want to forget about this whole war and rush home immediately. I swallow hard.

“It’s the middle of the night. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow?”

My dad shakes his head. “No. We can’t put this off, Sam. Who knows what might happen to us tomorrow?”

With that, suddenly resolute, my dad dials the number to our house. He holds the phone to his ear nervously, waiting. I have memories of my mom and dad together—old memories from before he disappeared. They were happy together. I wonder what must be going through my father’s head right now, having to break the news that we’re still not coming home. He’s probably feeling the same guilt I am.

“Answering machine,” my dad says after a moment. He looks almost relieved. Then, he covers the phone with his hand. “Should I . . . ?”

He trails off as the tinny beep of the answering machine sounds in his ear. His mouth works soundlessly as he tries to figure out what to say.

“Beth, this is—,” he stammers, running his free hand through his hair. “It’s Malcolm. I don’t know where to begin—this answering machine may not be the best place—but, I’m alive. I’m alive and I’m sorry and I miss you terribly.”

My dad looks up at me, his eyes watery. “Our son is with me. He—I promise to keep him safe. One day, if you’ll let me, I’ll explain everything to you. I love you.”

He holds the phone out to me with a shaky hand. I take it.

“Mom?” I begin, trying not to overthink what I’m about to say, just letting it go. “I—I finally found Dad. Or he found me. We’re doing something amazing, Mom. Something to keep the world safe that, uh, isn’t dangerous at all, I promise. I love you. We’ll be home soon.”

I hang up the phone, staring down at it for a moment before looking up at my father. His eyes are still shining as he reaches out and pats me on the knee.

“That was good,” he says.

“I hope it was all true,” I reply.

“Me too.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE NEW DAY’S FIRST RAYS OF LIGHT SLIP between the buildings, beating back the cool night air, turning Chicago’s sky first purple and then pink. From the roof of the John Hancock Center, I watch the sun slowly rise over Lake Michigan.

It’s the third night in a row I’ve come up here, unable to sleep.