“What are you thinking?” Jetson asked. “And where are you going? Please, just tell me.” His eyes pleaded. They were the sunny color of fresh-cut grass. Soon, news of how I’d betrayed him and the others would spread, and he would never look at me this way again. I don’t know why I did what I did next. Maybe I was grateful.

I set my bag down and stepped into his arms. I put my hands on his chest and stretched up. I placed my mouth on his.

* * *

After a while, a knock sounded on the door.

I pulled my mouth away. “Someone’s at the door.”

His mouth curved in a soft, silly smile.

“The door,” I said, tugging at his arm. “Someone’s at the door. You have to get in the closet.”

He snapped to attention. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know. Just get in there—and stay.” I pushed him toward the closet. “Promise you won’t come out.”

“Fine.” He stepped into the closet.

“Promise,” I insisted.

“I promise.”

I shut the door and hurried across the room. If Jones was knocking, she wouldn’t wait long. I wanted her attention as far from Jetson as possible. The knock sounded again.

“I can hear you breathing, Cobane. Open the door.”

Hosea! He was here! He’d said he would leave at first light. I had been prepared to chase him across the Kongo. I opened the door. Dressed in black bambi, he was ready for travel. His eyes were rimmed with sleeplessness. “You’re still here,” I said.

He stepped in, forcing me backward. “Not for long. What in hell happened to you?”

“It’s nothing. How is the village?”

“No better. But, no worse—no thanks to you,” he added. He was murderously mad, but he withdrew ointment from his bag. “Sit down. I’ll see to your wounds.”

I moved to my desk and sat as he ministered.

“I assume Jones didn’t like what you had to offer.”

Acutely aware of Jetson’s presence in the closet, I chose my words carefully. “I tried to help. You may not have liked my methods, but I tried.”

He didn’t answer. He wore a strange expression. Half pity, half something else I couldn’t identify. Was it guilt, or was that my own heart projecting onto him? He moved with stiff, impersonal motions. He hated me. How would I convince him to bring me back into the fold, even closer than I’d been before? How would I convince him to take me with him from Cobane? I was caught in indecision when he wrapped a hand around my wrist.

“Cobane, you’re coming with me.”

My jaw dropped.

“I’m taking you to Director Kumar.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Had he read my mind? “Wha—you’re taking me to the Director? Why would you do that?”