He had no desire to copulate with her in any shape, form, or manner, but he was seriously tempted to kick her as hard as he could. The thought of his boot connecting with her midsection, knocking her over, knocking that smile off her face, hurting her, making her pay for what she’d done, tempted him sorely, but he knew it would not really accomplish anything. She would not really be hurt—whatever she was—and he would only be showing his hand, revealing his true emotions.

And that, he figured, was probably the most dangerous thing he could do.

So he remained in place, staring impassively at the girl, and she laughed obscenely, a dirty nasty sound that was at once seductive and derisive, dismissal and promise. She thrust her buttocks out at him, and he turned away, began walking back toward the House, and the wild sound of her obscene laughter followed him all the way.

He was waiting for his parents in the kitchen when they returned.

Both his mother and father walked in, each of them carrying a sack of groceries.

He took a deep breath. “Mom. Dad. We need to talk.”

His parents looked at each other, then looked at him. It was his father who spoke. “What about, son?”

“About the House.”

“I still have those pallets to unload. I thought you could help me—”

“About the girl.”

Again, his parents looked at each other.

“Sit down,” Mark said, motioning toward the seats he’d pulled out for them at the kitchen table.

They talked.

He did not press his father on the girl, but he described what had happened to him in the hallway, and made it clear that that was why he’d wanted to get out of the House, to run away. And that was exactly what she wanted, he explained. She wanted to weaken the House, wanted to break apart their family, wanted to get them out.

“But I’m not going to let her,” he said. “I love you. I love you both.”

“I love you, too,” his mother said.

His father nodded, put a hand on his arm.

Mark started crying, and tears obscured his vision, and he closed his eyes and rubbed them, and when he opened them again he was alone in the kitchen. The windows had remained, but there was no porch outside, no chicken coops, only a white blanket of fog, and he understood that he had returned.

He felt warmth on the back of his neck, and he jumped up and turned around, but it was Kristen, standing there, smiling at him.

“You did good,” Kristen said. “You did fine.”

He smiled wryly. “Is everything resolved?”

“Do you still resent them?”

“No.”