His right foot sank into a deep puddle, and Nathan stumbled, fell to the ground, his leg and palms instantly blazing in pain. He whimpered, clenching his jaw, knowing that he couldn’t scream. The man would hear him, would come for him. And although earlier that hadn’t scared him so much, now he was terrified. The rage in that man’s face when he’d hit him with the metal bar . . . Nathan had never seen a grown man so angry. He wasn’t even a man anymore; he was a monster.

He got to his feet and started limping, his right foot now squelching with every step, completely soaked. His palms burned; he was sure there was blood on them. He was scared of blood, and his mom always applied a Band-Aid when he scratched himself. His leg ached, no matter how lightly he tried to walk on it.

After his puddle accident, he was terrified to blunder into another hole—or a tree—so he moved much slower, waving his arms ahead of him, peering at the ground, avoiding darker spots that could be holes or rocks.

It was cold, so cold. It had never occurred to him to wear his coat before attacking that man. He’d left it discarded carelessly on that duplicate bed. If only he had it with him. When he got out of the house, he’d assumed he’d run into a street. He would find someone to help him, or knock on doors and scream for help. Someone would call his mom; he knew her phone number because she’d had him memorize it. Or they’d take him home; he knew his address as well.

But instead, he’d run out into this . . . emptiness. Where was he? Where had the man taken him? It must be much farther than he’d thought. He was probably out of New York City.

The idea terrified him so much he nearly turned back. He would apologize to the man. Mom always said if you apologized, and you were truly sorry, people would forgive you. And he was sorry. He should never have done that. The man hadn’t hurt him. It had seemed like he was taking care of him.

But now . . .

Now the man would hurt him if he ever caught him. Nathan had no doubt.

He kept on going, and when he glanced back, the cabin was small; he could hardly see it. The door was shut now, and the only way he could even make it out was because of the lights in the windows. Maybe the man had given up on catching him? After all, Nathan had hurt his legs; he couldn’t catch him crawling and—

A bouncing light. A flashlight. It pointed down at the ground, the beam swiveling like an evil eye, and then it pointed up again. Bouncing closer.

The man was following his footprints in the mud.

Nathan sobbed and tried to move faster, but his leg actually hurt more, and it was freezing, and he was in pain. He wanted to lie down and stop. The man wouldn’t kill him if he just lay there, right?

Collapsing to the ground, he shut his eyes and thought of home. Of Mom. Of Gabi. Of being warm again.

The man’s footsteps were getting closer, squelching in the muddy ground.

“Nathan!” he hollered. “Get back here! You’ll get lost.”

He was already lost. He opened his mouth, about to call out. The room back in the cabin was warm. He got fed. And the man seemed to like Gabi. Surely he would send him back eventually. “I’m—”

“Get back here right now! I’ll carve you to pieces, you little shit.”

The words died in Nathan’s throat. He looked around frantically, saw a dark shape, maybe a bush, a few feet away. Very carefully, he crawled over to it.

The footsteps got closer. The man was limping because of what Nathan had done, and it made the sound of his steps uneven—squelch, thump, squelch, thump—like a monster in the swamp, the flashlight beam flickering as it swept over the muddy ground. Nathan managed to reach the bush, huddled behind it as the beam slid nearby.

“Nathan.” Hardly a word, more like a growl.

Squelch. Thump.

Nathan crouched, holding his breath.

Squelch. Thump.

The footsteps receded. His lungs were about to burst, but he didn’t dare breathe.

I’ll carve you to pieces.

Squelch, thump, squelch, thump.

Perhaps the man was far enough away. Perhaps he wasn’t. It didn’t matter; Nathan couldn’t hold his breath any longer, and he exhaled, trying to let it out as softly as possible. Carefully, he got to his feet and moved away from the searching flashlight.

He nearly blundered into the wire fence. His fingertips brushed it as he took that extra step. He froze, breathing hard. Touched the top wire and ran his finger along it. It hit something spiky, a pang of pain flashing. He pulled his finger back and fumbled around, found two more wires. Three wires, running from left to right. And each had those nasty spiky things.

He could crawl above the bottom wire and below the middle wire. They were spaced really far from each other.

He crouched, trying to push the middle wire upward, but it was taut. Very carefully, he moved his right hand over the wire, and it touched grass on the other side. His left hand landed in something wet and sticky—mud. Gently, he maneuvered himself under the wire. His eyes glimpsed the flashlight. Moving toward him again. Too close. In a panicked moment he lunged to the other side, and agony tore through his back. Now he screamed.

Behind him, the man called, “Nathan! Don’t move, you little shit!”

He couldn’t get away; the fence held him back. With another lunge, he managed to pull free, hearing his sweatshirt rip. And he was on the other side. He could glimpse the silhouettes of tall, looming trees above him.