“Well,” Rachel said, “thank you for this.” She held out her forearm, marked by a dog bite, deep and ugly, that Mom apparently had stitched up. “You’ll send me a bill? I’m sorry to get you up in the middle of the night.”

“That’s why we’re here, Rachel,” Mom said.

After an exchange of handshakes, Rachel gathered up her rope and muzzle, loaded them into her pickup, and drove off.

“I hope we’re not trapped in this town. What if we have a medical emergency?” I asked. I still hadn’t decided to tell her what I thought was going on with me.

She shrugged. Apparently, we were on our own.

CHAPTER 12

Jordan

WHEN I WOKE up and looked at my watch, I was surprised to see it already was 9:45 a.m. I didn’t usually sleep that late. Well, I had a concussion—and my head ached like a guy suddenly cut off from a heavy coffee habit—so maybe that was a factor.

Coffee sure would have hit the spot around now, preferably something made with freshly ground beans (light roast, please; African origins preferable to South American) in a French press or a pour-over. I was a connoisseur, so I suffered in the camps as they used up what must’ve been a stash of Maxwell House cans dating back to the 1960s. ADHD medication is basically a stimulant, and I had found that a good, tall morning mug of coffee—with that oh-so-popular stimulant, caffeine—helped me to focus. Right now, I certainly needed to do that.

When I opened my bedroom door, I didn’t smell coffee but something even more pleasing: bacon. Fatback. That could mean only one thing.

I didn’t bother getting dressed, just ran down the stairs in my T-shirt and basketball shorts and rounded the kitchen door to see …

“Dad!”

There he sat at the kitchen table. He’d shaved his head and had lost the close-cropped beard he’d worn ever since I could remember. He was clean-cut, like a different person. Mom stood at the stove, three frying pans going, a cast-iron family heirloom in the back with slices of fatback sizzling and popping.

Dad stood up and wrapped his arms around me. I shook off my recollection of the nightmare and rubbed his bald head. “Please don’t tell me this is from the radiation,” I said.

“Radiation gives you cancer,” he said seriously as he sat back down at the table. “Chemotherapy is what makes you lose your hair. I’ve never had my radiation tag go off, and I’ve certainly not been prescribed chemo.”

Charlie spoke up. “Dad said that he’s on R and R. Rock and roll!”

Dad smiled, yet I could see him forcing it. I aimed a theatrical wink at Charlie while Mom placed a plate of pancakes on the table next to a bowl of her signature peach compote. She was going all out.

“What’s it been like?” I asked. “What do they have you doing?”

“My role is the same. I monitor a workstation and make sure that our cooling systems are working.”