"And?"

"And at the end of the day, you weren't on the bus you were supposed to be on. People say there was a bus at school-like a small one, a short bus-that you all got on, but they never found it, but I knew right away it was something else. Some people spotted a craft up by Venice."

"A s.p.a.ceship?"

"Yes, ma'am."

The wind blew a few strands of Scarlett's hair into her mouth, and she pulled them away. "Do other people think that? Aliens?"

"Everyone has their own ideas. Come on. I'll show you."

Soon, newspaper clippings were spread out on the dining room table. Article after article about the mysterious abduction, many of them beginning with lines like, "Just months after a school shooting that took the lives of fifteen children, another tragedy has rocked the town of Fort Myers Beach."

Awful.

But not her problem.

In a photo array, she recognized her younger self among the "Victims of The Leaving."

"They called it The Leaving?"

The woman- Her mother nodded and showed her a glossy page ripped from a magazine. "Because of what you said, yeah."

Reading from the page . . . directed by . . . starring. "There was a movie?"

"There've been a couple. None of them any good."

Scarlett reached for her own hair, pulled it. "We were five years old! We didn't leave."

The . . . mother stared at her for a minute, then reached out and put a palm on her cheek. "I always knew they'd bring my baby back."

Scarlett said slowly, "We got out of a van tonight. A van."

Her mother s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away-"You should rest"-then started gathering up the articles and returning them to a folder on the kitchen island.

But Scarlett was looking back at those photos of the victims . . .

. . . and counting, and . . .

"Wait."

Six photos.

One of her.

Then Lucas.

Kristen.

Sarah.

Adam.

She pointed at the last one.

More confused than even before.

"Who's Max G.o.dard?"

Lucas

He hadn't even wanted to go back to the house, but that was where the agents dropped him and he didn't have any better ideas.

A light above the front door sensed him and turned on, and moths seemed to materialize just to flit in its light.

The door was locked, the inside lights all off.

He knocked.

Then again, more loudly, when nothing happened.

Then again.

There were three cars parked beside the house.

Knocked one more time and the door swung open.

She had blond hair and her eyes were too far apart and her T-shirt-the only thing she was wearing, legs long and tan-read BRUNETTES HAVE MORE FUN. She stared at him for a moment, then called out, "Ryan?"

They waited.

A moth flew at her and she ducked. "So you're the brother."

"And you are . . . ?" he said.

"The girlfriend." Her stare was unflinching-unnerving, really. "Miranda."

"You think I could come in?" he asked.

"I don't know . . ." Then louder: "Ryan?"

A voice from down the hall: "Let him in."

Lucas stepped past her and into the living area just as Ryan appeared and sat on the couch. Lucas sat at the other end. Miranda inserted herself between them.

"I don't even know what to say." Ryan rubbed his face with both palms. "What happened? You escaped? What?"

Lucas mirrored his brother's gesture. "I guess we were let go. There was a van that dropped us off. We had maps to help us get home."

"Why now?" Ryan was shaking his head. "Where were you? Who had you?"

"I don't know. I don't remember anything." Lucas looked at his brother for a long minute and thought Ryan's eyes had the exact same color and tilt as the ones he saw reflected back in mirrors, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd looked in a mirror.

"Well, who was driving the van?" Miranda asked.

"I don't know! I can't explain it. It's like we woke up on the van right before we got off."

Ryan was staring at him. Then he said, "I really have no idea what to say to you. It feels unreal. And now Dad . . ."

Dad.

Dead.

Didn't even know how to feel.

Losing something that had already been lost.