They took turns. Savoring each sweet bite. When the peaches were gone, Matty tipped the tin and drank the rich syrup and then licked the lid. Then he just sat quietly, cheeks flushed. His pale skin glowing in the firelight, almost incandescent: a lit match. Jack sat there with the taste of peaches like drenched sunlight fading in his mouth and something in his chest constricting tighter and tighter until he couldn’t wait any longer. He stood and went to the backpack and took out the phone. Matty stared up at him, suddenly alert.

He walked to Matty and crouched. “Take it.”

“You’re going somewhere, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I have to get food.”

Matty looked at the beans and the potatoes. “Is that all we have?”

“Almost.”

“Are we going to die?”

Jack sat by him. “No. Someday, I guess. But not now.”

“Are you sick?”

“A little. But I’m going to get better.”

“I could go with you.”

“No. I need you to stay here.”

“Why?”

“Someone needs to keep the fire going. It’s an important job, short stuff. Can you do that?”

Matty looked at the fire. He didn’t answer.

“There’s enough wood for all day,” Jack said. “And beans for lunch. I’ll be home by dark.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes. But you’ll be okay.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Yes. I will too.”

“Are you sure?”

Jack nodded.

“And I’ll be here.”

“Yes.”

“To keep the fire going.”

“Yes.”

Matty watched him, eyes bright. He looked as if he were being twisted by some tight, invisible grip. “Okay.”

“I’m going to leave you this phone. For if you need it.”

Matty’s gaze held Jack’s. “But I won’t need it. Right?”

“I don’t think so. But just in case.”

“Who would I call?”

“Mrs. Browning. I put her number in. See? You just push the button. You tell her you’re in the old Palmer house on Egin-Hamer Road. You only call if I’m not back by dark. You understand? Only if it turns dark.”

“If I call Mrs. Browning, will she take me to Services?”

Jack’s mouth felt dry. It hurt to swallow. Along the soot-stained plaster wall, a mouse scuttered, stopped. Watched him.

“I’ll be back by dark,” he said at last.

Matty took the phone from his hand and held it. “Okay.”

At the high school, Doyle went to the main office where a woman sat at the reception desk, typing. She looked at him over her reading glasses. “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Victoria. I’m lookin’ for Jack Dahl.”

She typed and squinted at her screen. “He’s absent.”

“Is there a teacher or somebody I could talk to about him?”

“Maybe Miguel Navarro.” She buzzed an inner office. “Go on in.”