I watch him, trying to pinpoint all the reasons why I shouldn’t allow this boy I hardly know to stand inside my home, why I should tell him to leave, but I only see the boy I found inside the Wicker Woods: cold and shivering and alone. His bare chest facing the fire when I brought him back. How his hands felt like ice, how his jaw clenched, how his muscles only relaxed when I touched him.

“I don’t trust anyone there,” he answers.

“Why not?”

His eyes hook on mine before slipping away. And after a long, muted pause, he says simply, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

I think I hear movement upstairs, Suzy waking up, or maybe just turning over in bed. The sound fades. A boy died, I think again. The words on loop, echo, echo, echo. I swallow and look back at Oliver, saying aloud the thing I can’t escape. “A boy died the night you went missing,” I say, words tumbling out, causing a strange pain inside my ribs—like being snagged by a fishing hook.

Oliver’s brow stiffens. “What?”

I feel my jaw contract, my eyes afraid to look away from him, afraid I’ll miss a flutter of an eyelash that might mean something. Reveal some clue Oliver is trying to hide. “A boy is dead,” I say, firmer this time.

But Oliver’s expression tightens, like he doesn’t understand.

“You didn’t know?” I ask.

“No. I don’t…” He trails off, swaying a little on his feet, and I see how pale he is—the cold hasn’t left him completely yet. “I don’t remember anything. I can’t…” Again his voice breaks.

I want to touch him, to steady him, but I keep my hands at my sides, examining every line of his face, the slope of his cheekbones. I’m looking for a lie, for something he’s hiding. But there is only muted confusion.

“I can’t go back to the camp,” he says finally. “If the road wasn’t snowed in, I’d leave, but”—he exhales deeply—“I’m stuck here.”

Oliver breathes and I swear the wind calms, he closes his eyes and the forest trembles against the house.

My lost item found in the woods. Who is now more forest than boy.

I say the next thing before I can stop myself, before I can tell myself it’s a bad idea. “Okay.” A prick of unease cuts through me. “You can stay here tonight.”