Fireman's toast had always been Peter's favorite. Even as a little boy, he'd asked every morning for the buttery, cheesy bread fried with an egg in its cookie-cut-out middle. Why she called it fireman's toast, Minn didn't know. Someone at work had corrected her once in conversation, told her it was (logically) referred to as egg-in-a-hole, but for some unknowable reason, Minn had been misnaming it as fireman's toast for years, and there was no way either she or Peter would be able to change the title, now.

Besides, she liked "fireman's toast." It was way more fun.

She was making some now, for Isaac, who sat on a counter stool facing the kitchen, watching her. Everything was incredibly awkward. Being at that trailer park, in the car—well, those places had been beyond, on the outside, but now she'd willingly brought him into her world, and the realization of that had set in the moment she'd entered the house and tossed her keys in the bowl on the hall console table. What she'd really wanted to do was go upstairs and take a hot shower, use the bathroom, change her clothes, but there was no way she was doing any of that with this capricious stranger in her home. At the very least, he could run away, and she knew she had to get him back to Circle Ridge before he became a danger to anyone, including himself. How she could do that without infuriating him, without losing his trust, was something she was working desperately to figure out.

He hadn't given her back her phone, yet (not that she'd asked for it), and Minn was contemporary enough to have foregone a landline, so she had no way to contact someone and would've been hesitant to do so even if she had. She was still too uncertain about where things were headed to discontinue walking on eggshells around Isaac. He'd proven himself volatile the night before—hours earlier had literally tried to put a bullet up his skull—and surely could be set off by any perceived threat. There was something more than concern for his and her safety that kept Minn from behaving in a more prudent manner, though. By all means, she should've run to the neighbors by now, asked to use their phone, called the police, but she told herself she needed to see things through, to help him, when in reality she was reluctant to admit that hanging on to him was due to her own selfishness. Every part of her knew her actions were stupid, that for as old as she was, she was behaving like a teenager herself. Minn had never been so conflicted in all her life, but heart overruled head in the end.

It was a ticking bomb, this—her decision to help him while helping herself. There was no way to sustain it, no matter how much she thought she could manage.

"I don't usually like eggs," Isaac suddenly said following a sneeze.

Minn blinked back to reality, out of her troubled thoughts. She glanced down at the frying pan, where the bread was almost toasted to perfection and the cheese had melted across the egg, and then looked up at the boy. "Why didn't you say something before I started making it? Well whatever. You'll like this. I can't really cook well, except for breakfasts. I can do French toast and waffles."

"That would've been better." Isaac sneezed again.

"Well now you're just being rude. Be quiet and try it, all right?"

The kitchen was full of sunshine. Minn's house was nothing fantastic, just a one-and-a-half-story bungalow, but the wall of windows in the living room were east-facing, and the light poured through them fully enough to illuminate the kitchen as well, the two rooms being separated only by a half-wall-turned-dining-counter. It'd been her home for nearly sixteen years. She'd moved in shortly after Peter'd been born; Wolf had helped her with all of it. And by now, there were plenty of personal touches making the space her own, including numerous houseplants.

"Fuck, you have a cat!" the boy commented sharply, bending aside as a plump gray fluff leapt up onto a stool next to him.

Minn stifled her urge to denounce his language and instead smiled at the animal. She turned off the burner and spatula'd a piece of fireman's toast onto a plate for Isaac. "Beetle is very friendly," she noted, sliding the plate across the counter toward him while simultaneously digging a fork from a drawer.

"Yeah, but I'm allergic," he frowned.

"Well. I'm not getting rid of him. You'll just have to move." She paused halfway through scooping up her own toast, reconsidered. "You're not, like, deathly allergic, are you? No epi-pen?" Part of her fluttered with weird hope; if he needed medical attention, surely he'd give her back her phone! As willing as he'd been to kill himself, she didn't think anyone would choose death-by-allergic-reaction.

"No. Not that bad—" He paused to sneeze again, then groaned, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Just annoying."

"The bathroom's there," she pointed, "if you need a tissue."

Isaac looked about to decline but changed his mind and slipped from the barstool. His chains jangled as he went off down the hall.

Minn cut her toast and took a bite. The salt and butter and cheese!—she felt as if she'd never tasted anything better. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. When she'd been little, her own mother had occasionally made breakfast for her and Wolf—fried eggs or scrambled, cinnamon rolls. It was always a special treat because the children were so often left to fend for themselves. Or, at least, that was what Minn recalled. Looking back on her childhood, Minn found her memories vague. Even the face of her mother was hardly a clear image, let alone that of her father, who'd never been affectionate. There'd been, in fact, so many adults in her life at that time that she was no longer positive she could've picked her parents from a lineup. Perhaps she could identify her mother, if the woman sang to her. Her mother's voice had been caramel-smooth, unless that, too, was a detail glossed by the lapse of time.

It wasn't until years after she and Wolf had been separated from their parents that they'd quite learned why. The group their parents had been part of had been made up of people attempting to escape the law. They'd been a countercultural enclave, not paying taxes, attempting to live off the land but also stealing and committing other petty crimes to get along. The authorities had sent most of them out into the world or off to prison, including Minn and Wolf's parents, and after being placed in foster care, neither the boy nor girl had attempted resolution of any kind. They'd never visited their parents in prison, didn't even know to which one they'd been sent. Only once, in high school, had Minn considered attempting to find their mother and father, but when she'd suggested it to her brother, she'd been met with a harsh reprimand. Wolf had helped her understand that he and she had moved on, that to go backward would only muddle their lives, and he'd been right, of course. Minn had trusted him more than any living being back then, and she still did. She'd built a happy enough life for herself thanks to him. It didn't matter that Peter wouldn't know his grandparents on either side; she'd raised the boy properly, and he seemed well-adjusted enough.

He was a little into the alternative look—Peter—a bit like Isaac in that sense, though the young man currently in her bathroom was far darker than her son, was certainly more troubled. Not that Peter was troubled, not at all. Peter was a good, kind, studious young man, a little quiet, a bit of a loner, but a good kid.

Minn sighed before picking up her cup of coffee and taking a tentative sip so as not to burn her tongue. She wished Peter would come home. He'd been with his uncle for a while, now, seemed to prefer it there. It hurt his mother's heart, though she tried to remain strong, knowing he'd return when he was ready.

"Can I come in here?"

Isaac's voice interrupted Minn's wandering mind. "Oh, sure. Yeah." She reached across the counter and pulled in his plate, handed it over. Then she sat down at the dinette and gestured for him to sit across from her. The two of them were silent for a moment, Minn watching him, waiting for him to take a bite of his breakfast and Isaac warily picking up the toast and then, much to the woman's frustration, putting it back onto the plate without so much as a nibble.

"What's your kid like?"

"Peter?"

"Whatever his name is."

Minn shrugged. She didn't really want to talk to Isaac about her son (didn't know why the kid seemed so interested), but she also didn't want to close him off to conversation. "Well, like I said, he's about your age." She occupied her mouth with food and drink, tried to think of a way to change the topic of conversation. "Would you at least try this food I made? You asked about my son—it's his favorite."

Isaac screwed up his mouth to one side, but before they could continue their uncomfortable conversation, Minn caught sight of lights reflecting off a framed painting in the living room.

Red and blue lights.

From outside.

Her stomach dropped. Isaac couldn't see the reflection from his angle, but it had to be a bad sign, and mention of the police could tip his scales back into fight-or-flight mode.

There were no sirens, which meant that the cops were parked or moving slowly. They weren't on their way to a crime scene; they weren't chasing someone on the run. They were deliberately patrolling the area. Rising, Minn made some excuse about checking on the cat and went to the living room, fussing about with couch cushions and calling the animal's name while she meandered toward the large picture window. Once there, she leaned into it, pushed aside the sheer curtain obscuring half her view, and saw what she'd feared she'd see: two police cars, one parked way down at the end of the street, blocking it off, and another a few houses down. And she saw the officers themselves, too, across the way at one of her neighbor's doors. They were speaking to the homeowner with hands at their backs, nodding and looking about, and then one of them pointed toward Minn's house, and she ducked out of the way.

House to house. They were going house to house.

Frantic, Minn took a few deep breaths, tried to figure out what to do. She could hide Isaac somewhere, but if they wanted to do a search of some kind, they'd surely find him. Did they have the ability to do a search? No, she didn't think so. Not without a warrant. Unless for some reason they had one already—unless this was all because someone had seen her get into the car with Isaac the night before. And Circle Ridge had certainly reported him missing . . . oh! If they found him, they'd deem him a criminal for sure. And Minn didn't want him to get into any more trouble, the poor boy. He was already clearly suffering, and what would they do? Stick him in isolation? Actually put him in jail? Would she be called as a witness or something, to talk about what he'd done? And if she instead tried to make up some excuse, as she'd pondered earlier . . . what could it be? She hadn't had the proper time to figure it out, and she wasn't nearly as quick a thinker as the situation called for.

"What is it?" Isaac was suddenly right there, trying to peer around her to the window.

"No! Get back." She didn't want him to know.

But it was too late. "The cops? Do they know I'm here? I have to—they'll fucking torture me if I—"

"Stop! Stop it! I'm trying to think, all right?" Minn waved him farther into the house, away from the window, but not before catching sight of the officers, who'd stepped away from the neighbor's and were crossing the street toward hers. Minn ran trembling fingers through her short dark hair. "I need time—I think . . . you have to hide. You'll just have to hide! And really, really well. I don't think they'll be able to come in, but—"

She stopped suddenly, spun toward the short hallway. Then she met Isaac's similarly wide eyes. Both of them listened for another second to the intense banging that had begun. Minn hardly wanted to breathe for fear of making too much noise. Someone was at the back door.