Ever since we got back from Maine six weeks ago, Jasper’s late-night calls have become an everyday thing. Jasper is on his new phone, of course. Because it hadn’t been him who sent the text telling me to run that day all those weeks ago when the agents were standing at my door.

As soon as Agent Klute and his friends had left our house, I called Jasper back—wanting to be sure he was okay, wanting to know why exactly he had told me to run. But he hadn’t answered his phone. After two more hours of calling and being unable to track down a landline number for Jasper’s family, I’d insisted—over my dad’s strong objection—that we drive over to Jasper’s house and check on him.

Jasper had been completely fine when he’d finally answered the door—sleepy and confused, but fine. He didn’t even have his phone, hadn’t seen it since Quentin had taken it from him at the camp.

The local police had found my phone in the main cabin and had returned it to me that morning during one of the many interviews at the rest stop. But Jasper and I were being questioned separately then. I had just assumed he had gotten his back, too. Actually, I hadn’t thought about it at all. But the officers had never found Jasper’s phone.

Someone had told me to run at the exact right moment, though. And to what terrible end I could only imagine. Maybe they had been hoping that running would get me killed.

My dad did contact Agent Klute later when we realized the message hadn’t come from Jasper. Klute had agreed to look into the text and then sometime later proclaimed the whole thing to be some kind of prank. We did press him for details. A prank didn’t make sense. But Agent Klute stopped returning our calls. And it was hard to object to that when we also never wanted to hear from him again.

My phone chirps again now and I feel around for it on the nightstand. Think again about how I should change it to some less jarring ringtone. But then, I’ll stay jumpy regardless of my ringtone.

It’s a big achievement that I was asleep at all. Neither Jasper nor I have slept much since we got back from Maine—too much regret, too much guilt. Instead, we survive the endless nights on the phone, talking about everything and nothing. And I lie on my bed, staring at the old photos that line my bedroom walls, thinking I should take them down because they remind me of my mom. Knowing that is the reason I never will.