When we were back on the highway and had driven a few solid moments in silence, Paolo finally asked, "You going to tell me what happened back there?"

I hesitated. Since leaving, my mind had been racing about what I should tell him. I realized, though, that I didn't even know much about what had happened, so whatever I told him could easily be honest without revealing much. "There was someone in that building."

"Someone? Probably some kids just messing around."

"Yeah, I don't know. Maybe."

I saw him glance at me sideways, but I stared straight ahead.

"Why did you even go in there?"

"I don't know. I was just bored. I thought I'd look around. Actually, I wasn't really planning on going in. I just wanted to kind of see if there was anything left in there, and when I got in, it was super dark, but there was a skylight. But when I walked to the skylight . . . I saw something move."

"You sure it wasn't an animal?"

"Too big."

"Ok, so a person. Probably some kids. Not a lot to do around here, so they hang out places."

He could have been right. Of course he could be right. There was no reason for me to think that whoever was in there was someone sinister, someone out to get me. I'd just had too many experiences where someone was, and with Henry on my mind, I was anxious about everything. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized Paolo was most likely right. Why would someone from the Circuit be waiting for me in an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere? How would anyone have known we'd stop there? Unless . . . unless Paolo had alerted them . . . but no. He couldn't have known I'd go into there. And there hadn't been any cars around.

I hated that I doubted Paolo. In spite of myself, I was beginning to like him, and not just because he made me feel some kind of way. He was funny, had made me laugh during the ride, had been nice to talk to.

Then again, Mac had been funny and nice, too.

Paolo kept his eyes on the road but softened his voice as he brought up what I'd been hoping he wouldn't bring up: "You've been through some stuff. I don't know what it is, and if you want to talk about it, I can listen. Whatever you've got in your past, you can keep it there, you know? Sometimes talking about it helps put it in its place."

That was the problem, though--I couldn't keep it there. My past was my present. The future? It didn't exist much, for me.

"I knew when I saw you," he added. "There's something about you. You can talk to me."

"No," I cut him off. I propped my elbow on the windowsill and then leaned my head against the glass. "I can't."

My silence must've convinced him that I was serious. He didn't ask anything else, didn't say anything else. Not for a long while. I closed my eyes, even though I wasn't tired, and just tried to corral my twisting thoughts. I wished I hadn't acted so afraid back there--I'd been stupid. Of course it had only been some animal or locals messing around. It hadn't been my eyes playing tricks, though—of that I was sure.

Paolo let it go, and I was grateful. We drove another few hours in silence, got some food and kept driving. The camaraderie that had been developing at the start of the trip dimmed, and we both sat steeped in our own thoughts most of the time, with only Paolo's choice of music to distract us.

At some point in the late afternoon, though, Paolo began to get too tired. I mentioned it before he did, seeing him yawning a few times. He acted like he was fine, but then he closed his eyes a little too long, and the car started drifting lanes. I hit him on the shoulder, and he corrected, but even he had to admit we needed to stop somewhere.

"How much longer is the drive?" he asked me.

I checked the GPS on his phone. "Still about four and a half hours."

"I can do it."

I sighed internally, regretting what I was about to say before saying it: "No. You need to actually sleep. I don't want to die because you pass out driving. I have enough for a motel room."

His eyebrows lifted. "Really? I would've suggested it, but I didn't want to--"

"It's fine. I'm fine with it."

"Ok, then. I could use a shower, anyway."

I said nothing in reply but didn't like where my head was. Maybe I needed to rethink this—to rethink everything.

We pulled into a decent-looking place off the highway, got a key, and headed to our room. I'd paid in cash, which depleted the money I'd brought by about a quarter. Paolo had offered to cover the room, but I hadn't let him; he'd already paid for some of the gas, and he was the one doing me a favor

The room was simple enough: two full beds, a television, and a bathroom. It appeared about as clean as a motel could be. I became suddenly aware of the fact that I hadn't changed clothes or showered or anything in a solid twenty-four hours; normally, I wouldn't have cared too much. When I thought of my journey with Henry after leaving Oliphant, I couldn't recall worrying about what I wore or the fact that I had no other clothing. I think I just cared about getting out and being with him. But it was different with Paolo; I was self-conscious. Fortunately, I'd packed my bag with a change of clothes, but I had nothing similar to pajamas. And I didn't think he had much of anything at all, seeing as he'd had no time to plan for it.

Nothing really seemed to bother Paolo, though. I waited in the room, tried to watch the two or three channels on the television, while he showered and did whatever he had to do in the bathroom. He was in there for a long time, but I was ok with that. It was a relief to get a break from him in order to think a while, to continue wondering why he'd been so eager to help me. What normal person would just drop everything and go on a road trip with an almost-stranger, leaving any responsibilities behind? He'd said it was because I was interesting. But was I . . . really? I mean, interesting enough to drop everything for? That sounded like the plot of some novel, not real life. People didn't do that sort of thing in real life (not that I knew much about real life, though). He'd been so charming during the car ride, not digging into my life, just funny and . . . and good to look at. His smile made me warm--the way he pushed his dark, soft hair back from his face. And maybe that was the trick of it all; he was supposed to make me feel like that, and someone had known it.

Whatever this was, it couldn't be real. I should never have gotten in the car with him.

Paolo came out of the bathroom at last, nothing but a towel around his waist. I was so startled that I had to look away, force myself to appear as if it was nothing to me that he was shirtless, fresh and clean, nothing on but that motel towel.

"Sorry--I had to wash some stuff. Starting to feel gross, you know?" He busied himself with hanging his clothes in the closet to dry out, acting like it was no big deal. "I cleaned up in there, though. It's all yours."

Eyes in front, I told myself as I walked around him and into the bathroom, my bag of clothes in hand. When I passed within inches of his bare chest, I held my breath and moved as quickly as possible, not letting it out until I had closed and locked the bathroom door.

I felt relieved that it had a lock.

About an hour later, I came out. I hadn't needed an hour, really, but I'd let the hot water just run on my back for as long as I could, trying to convince myself that the decision I'd made was the right one. My instincts were sure, but my heart wasn't. I hated the conflicting feelings. And after I'd left the shower, I'd spent a lot of time just staring at myself in the mirror, wondering if Paolo actually could be attracted to me. I mean, the face I saw was lovely in its way--smooth skin, large, clear eyes--but it was distant from me, and it always had been. I was confused by my appearance every time I saw myself, not knowing who exactly I was. Nevertheless, I told myself that it wasn't impossible to believe Paolo could find me pretty.

I didn't wash my clothing as he had done; it would no doubt be damp come the time I left. I instead put on the spare t-shirt and shorts I'd brought in my bag. They'd do to sleep in . . . and to get up and sneak out in. Barefoot, hair wet but tamed, teeth brushed, I finally gathered enough courage to leave the bathroom, hoping that Paolo would be in something other than the towel since I'd given him plenty of time to get it together.

And he was in more than the towel--he was in a bed, sound asleep.

That made things much easier. I thought I'd have to wait for a while, but I suppose he'd been so tired from being up the night before that he'd just passed out.

I stood there, looking at him from across the room. He was totally out of it, arms splayed across the bed, mouth somewhat open in absolute REM bliss. I didn't think anything could wake him in that moment. That was good, because I did make a little noise as I rummaged about, though I tried not to. I had to find his phone. It took me several moments, but at last I found it on the floor, plugged into an obscure outlet, charging. I hated taking it from him, but I needed the GPS. And besides, if he was lying to me about everything (which he probably was), then it was a good idea to take it. I had to take it. So why did it feel like the wrong thing to do?

Ugh. I hated doubting myself. I just needed to get away from him; he clouded my judgment.

As I stood up, right next to his bed, Paolo turned over in his sleep. He was facing me. I couldn't help staring at him, and now that he was dead to the world, I felt that I could do it without embarrassment. Looking at his face, his perfectness, I was reminded of a story I'd heard once--a fairytale about a bear who at night turned into a prince, and about the girl who was not supposed to know of his transformation but found out. And the night she found out her beloved bear was a beautiful man, as she gazed down at him, the wax of her candle dripped onto his chest and woke him, cursing him to become the property of the evil queen who'd placed the spell on him.

I gasped. Why had that story come to mind? Where had it come from? I couldn't recall anything at all from my past . . . and yet . . . this story had come from somewhere in my memory. Had someone told it to me? Had I read it? I searched my brain for some shred that could tell me more, but nothing came. Just the story.

"Don't leave."

I jumped. Paolo had woken up! He was looking at me, though he hadn't moved at all. I'd been so distracted by the story that I'd wasted too much time, and now he was awake.

"What? I--I'm--"

"You're going to leave."

Why didn't he seem more surprised? He acted as if he'd known all along, as if he hadn't actually been sleeping . . . Had he known how long I'd stood there, staring at him? I blushed terribly.

"Paolo, I--"

He sat up in the bed. "I know you want to leave. I've known it since we set out. I . . . I haven't really been honest with you."

Oh, God, I thought. This was what I'd been dreading. He was with the Circuit. He was going to tell me. I was caught. He was taking me somewhere, calling someone, going to do something . . . I'd been so stupid!

But I was paralyzed. I was at a loss as to what to do. How could I regain the upper hand? He was so calm . . . no doubt if I ran, someone was waiting outside the motel for me.

"Can you sit down? You're making me nervous."

Making him nervous? "No," I said. "Maybe you should be nervous." Should he be? Or should I?

He swung his legs around and pulled the covers off, and I was relieved to see he was wearing shorts again. I couldn't have handled the towel. "Listen, Nadia, I know about you. I knew it when I first saw you; it's why you stood out."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you know about me?"

"That you don't know who you are. That there's some history of you involved in crime, that you helped Jason Hines."

Of course he knew. How could I possibly have thought people didn't know about me? I'd seen how Mel and her friends talked about other people; what made me stupid enough to think they hadn't all been talking about me the same way? "So?" was what I said.

"So . . . that's all I really know. I--I want to help."

"Oh, is that right? Out of the good of your heart? You want to help me?"

"Don't say it like that. It's true--"

"I don't need your help. I don't want your help. Poor little Nadia, is that it? Poor nameless nobody, all wrapped up in mystery. You just wanted an adventure, huh? You thought I could give you one?"

He stood up, but I backed away, anger expanding in my chest.

"You know nothing about me or what I've been through."

"So tell me!"

"Oh, is that what you want? Because what--because you want a good story? Because you're my friend? I don't think so. I don't trust you. I don't trust anyone. Thanks for the ride, friend, but I'll help myself from now on."

I tried to shove past him, but he grabbed hold of my upper arms. I struggled to break free of his grip, but he was much stronger than I was.

"Let me go!"

For a moment, he looked right into my eyes, and I saw something intense there--whether anger or something else I couldn't tell. I was momentarily frightened, but then, suddenly, he loosened his hands, let go, and slumped backward.

"You're right," he said, shaking his head, looking down at his hands as if he'd just woken from a dream. "I'm--I'm sorry. I shouldn't--I didn't mean to--I'm sorry I put my hands on you. You should go, if that's what you want. I'm sorry, really. That's not who I am. Not what I want you to think of me."

I listened to the sound of my own rapid breathing for a moment, realizing how loud it was after he'd fallen silent. He turned and looked at me again, repeating his apology.

Perhaps encouraged by the fact that I hadn't run the minute he'd let go, he added quietly, "My dad--he treats my mom like crap. I didn't think I was like him."

I lowered my gaze to the carpet, bit my lip as I thought about what to say, what to do. I couldn't put anything together. Who was he, really? What did he want? I wanted to leave him, and I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to tell him everything, and I didn't want to tell him everything. I didn't know how to act.

At last, I replied. "I don't know you, and I don't trust you. Even if I did know you, it wouldn't change that. I have to get to this zip code because it's all I've got to lead me to the only person I do trust." I sniffled a little and rubbed my nose with the back of my hand to stop the frustrated tears I feared might surface. "I have no past--no place. I don't know anything about myself, but there are people out there trying to hurt me for reasons I don't even know, and I am scared every moment of every day. I hate it." I shook my head slowly. "I can't stay with you. Even if you aren't against me, you're in danger just being with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to go into all of it."

"All right," he said. Then, "If you want to go, I understand. But I promise you, Nadia, that if you don't, I will get you where you need to be, and I'll try to protect you."

"But don't you get it? That's exactly what worries me. Why are you being like that?"

"Like what?"

I waved a hand, trying to figure out how to word it. "Like you care about me? It's not normal."

Paolo studied me for a moment. I wondered if he was trying to figure out what to say, how not to give himself away, and I hated that I doubted him. "I don't know what is or isn't normal," he said softly, "but I know what's me, and I know that I want to help you. Does it matter why?"

The silence that filled the room after his comments was thick. I didn't know what to say to him. Did it matter why he wanted to help? Should I believe that he genuinely wanted to help me? Or was this more deception from someone trying to hurt me? If he worked for the Circuit, of course he'd know to say exactly what I wanted to hear. But I wanted him to be genuine. I wanted to trust him.

I realized that I was still holding his phone and handed it out toward him. He took it from me, saying nothing, waiting for me, I suppose. But I didn't have a decision. I didn't know what to do. So I fell into the chair next to the bed and sighed.

"Like I told you, I need to get to that zip code. Once I'm there, I can't tell you what might happen. I can't promise I won't leave you."

Paolo looked at me, and I didn't know if he was quiet because he didn't know what to say or because he was trying to process what I'd just said. Had I hurt his feelings? Whatever--it was the truth. If I found Henry, I'd leave Paolo. At least, I was pretty sure I would . . . would I?

"I understand," he said at last, and his acquiescence annoyed me. "If you have to go, that's what you have to do. But I can promise I won't leave you, unless you want me to."

I frowned. Lowered my eyes. Then I got up and threw my bag into a corner, kicked off my shoes, and got into the other bed. I didn't care that I was fully clothed; I pulled the thin cover over my head and tried to block out the light, the room--him. And in that way, I eventually fell asleep, and I assumed Paolo did as well.