Anna paced the worn carpet of her apartment's living room. The 911 operator had instructed her to lock the door and wait for an officer to arrive. Peter was in the shower rinsing off the remaining blood. At last, there came a knock at the door, barely audible above the rattling bathroom fan.

"Seattle Police Department," said a deep, female voice. Anna peered through the security peephole at the walleyed face of a tall white woman, her dark hair pulled back tight. She wore the blue-black uniform of a patrol officer, embroidered nametag on the right, badge on the left, radio clipped to the lapel above.

"Show me your badge," Anna shouted through the door.

The woman on the other side angled her badge toward the peephole. "Officer Regan, shield number 8621."

Anna released the chain and deadbolt then opened the door. The officer was lean and broad-shouldered, her narrow face composed with professional concern. "Are you alone?" she asked.

"No. Why—"

She strode past Anna, paused in the entryway, then drew her gun. Dropping into a half-crouch, she tiptoed to the hallway. Peter had finished showering, but the bathroom fan rattled obliviously.

The officer passed out of view. Anna stood still, heart pounding in her throat. The rattling fan grew suddenly louder as the bathroom door was opened. The shower curtain was ripped back. There was a muffled curse, and the officer came running back out, rushing past Anna through the still-open front door. From the stoop, the officer scanned the alleyway and called into her radio. "Target is out the south window. Repeat, south window." Then she leaped down the steps.

Anna slammed the door, bolted it, and set the chain. Sprinting down the hallway, she burst into the bathroom. Wet towels littered the floor. Above the sink, the Boy Hatch had been left wide open. Something dangled over the sill, caught on a nail—Peter's bloody shirt.

"Sorry about the mess," said Peter.

Anna shrieked and fell back against the pedestal sink.

He looked up from the blue Oxford shirt he was buttoning. "Whoa. What's wrong?"

"Jesus!"

"What?"

She retrieved his bloodied shirt. "I thought you went out the Boy Hatch. I thought you ran."

"Why would I run?"

"The police are looking for you."

"Wait, were they here?"

She began to shake, and Peter helped her to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed with the bloodied shirt in her lap. He closed the door and stood with his back against it. "What happened?"

Her trembling hands folded and unfolded the shirt as she explained. Then she looked up, her hazel eyes bleary and unfocused. "Peter, what's going on?"

"I don't know, but that wasn't the police."

"Then who was it?"

He shook his head.

"Should we go to the precinct station? It's just a few blocks away."

"I don't know. Davila thought it was a bad idea."

"Do you actually trust her?"

"No, I don't. But she seemed to know what she was talking about."

Anna crushed the bloody shirt in her hands. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I don't know!" He rubbed his face with his hands, shirtsleeves slipping down to his elbows. He needed to run. He needed to hide. But where? Old Delbert's house came to mind, way up on that mountain in the middle of nowhere. Peter uncovered his face and let out a long breath. "I think I just need to get out of town and lie low for a while." He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt. "Whose is this anyways?"

"Corbett's."

Peter nodded toward Anna's walk-in closet. "There's a lot of his stuff in there."

"It's not what you think."

"What am I thinking?"

"Look, if you have to know, I let him store a bunch of clothes here when he was in Europe last month. He was between places."

Europe. An idea flickered at the back of Peter's mind. "Is he in town now?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I think he can help me."

Late that evening, Peter waited for Anna to return. When he heard the timid knock on the front door, he jumped from the couch and peered through the security peephole. It was Anna, alone. She seemed to shiver in her fleece jacket. Her hair was a mess, her glasses crooked.

Releasing the chain and the deadbolt, he let her in. "Are you OK?"

She stumbled in and kicked off her shoes. Peter leaned outside and scanned the darkened alleyway. Then he closed the door and secured the chain and deadbolt. "Do you think you were followed?"

She lay on the couch and set her glasses on the side table along with something else, a U.S. passport. Peter picked it up and flipped through the pages. It belonged of course to Anna's boyfriend, Corbett Zickafoose, age twenty-nine, born in Toppenish, Washington. His resemblance to Peter was not as close as Anna had made it sound, but it was close enough, especially around the eyes. "What kind of name is Zickafoose? I thought you said he was Yakama?"

"A quarter."

Tucked into the passport were Corbett's credit cards and driver's license. "Shit. He let you take these?"

Anna sat up and drew her knees to her chin, dirty white socks perched on edge of the couch. "Not really."

"Wait. You stole them?"

When she did not answer, he returned the passport to the side table and sat next to her. "Wait. What's wrong? There's something else, isn't there?"

She lowered her feet onto the dingy carpet, and Peter reached out with his right hand to touch her left shoulder. She tried to brush it aside, but she missed by a mile, her left hand flopping against Peter's side. She tried again, but her entire arm flailed like a noodle. Then all at once it went rigid at her side, wrist cocked back, fingers curled into talons.

"Anna!"

She reached over with her right hand and grabbed Peter's arm. "It'll pass," she said through clenched teeth. "Wait."

It was over in a matter of seconds. She released Peter's arm, picked up her own limp hand, and calmly set it in her lap.

"Oh my God. That was a seizure, wasn't it?"

Her face was blank. "It's not the first time."

"Jesus, why didn't you say something?"

She stared down at her wilted left arm. "I thought they'd stop on their own. But they're coming more often now."

"I'm taking you to the ER right now."

"No." She looked up, her eyes unfocused. "I have an appointment early tomorrow morning."

"With who?"

"Dr. Brisling."

"Brisling? I thought you hated him."

"I do. But he's the doctor I need to see."

"He's not even a neurologist."

"Don't you think I know that?" She turned away.

Peter wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She smelled like sweat. "I'm staying here with you. Forget my stupid plan."

She wriggled free, planted her right palm in the center of Peter's chest, and pushed him away, her expression resentful. "No. If you really want to help me, you'll leave."

"What?"

"Look," she said, voice rising. "I don't know what kind of shit you've gotten yourself into, but the only reason I'm in any danger at all is because of you and that fucking Israeli woman."

The sting of her words gave way to a cold chill. How could he have been so stupid, so selfish, running straight to her apartment like that, dragging the Israeli with him?

Anna glared at the passport lying on the side table. "Corbett will know it was me who took it."

"Ah, Jesus. I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"Just go."

"Anna."

"Go!" She grabbed the passport and shoved it into Peter's hand.

Standing, he slipped the passport into his jeans pocket next to his own wallet. He tied his shoes and put on his jacket. Then taking the little roller suitcase he had packed while Anna was out, he stood by the front door.

Anna remained on the couch, staring down at her arm.

"As soon as I'm gone, call an ambulance or a cab and go to the emergency room. Forget Brisling." Peter wanted to scoop her up and carry her to the hospital himself. Instead, he took the cold metal of the doorknob in his hand. She was right. The farther away he was, the safer she would be.

She was wiggling her fingers now. "I'll be fine. Go."

"I'll get ahold of you, somehow. I promise."

The chain jangled loose. The deadbolt turned with a heavy clunk. The door opened, and Peter stepped out into the dark.

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