The bedroom has a slanted ceiling, faded flowery wallpapers and the stale air of a place that's been locked for too long. I open the little window and let the evening air roll into the room, disturbing the dust on the windowsill.

I turn around and take in the modest interior—the bed, the desk, the chair. The walls are bare, save for the wallpaper. No pictures. No photos. I would've expected more personality from a place where Joshua grew up—perhaps some rock band posters or a makeup table, like the one he had in the basement of "Golden Leaf". Perhaps his stepfather disapproved of such things.

"Make yourself at home," Joshua says, walking in with a blanket.

I look around again, unsure about our sleeping arrangements. "Are we going to share a room?"

He shrugs. "Sure. I wouldn't want to be alone at night. That's when your crazy family comes alive, no? I'm also going to sneak a rifle in here when Dad goes to bed. We're going to be prepared this time."

His words send chills up my spine. "You think they might find us here?"

He walks over and drops the blanket on the bed.

"Eventually, yes, but not too soon." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "I wasn't talking to anyone about where I came from, and the old man has a different second name, so..." He shrugs. "Anyway, you take the bed. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Absolutely not. I'll take the floor and you take the bed."

"Fine, if that's your wish." He grins at me, clearly having expected this.

He makes a couple more rounds, arranging blankets and pillows on the floor to make a bed for me. Then he leaves, and I soon hear water running in the bathroom across the hall.

Twenty minutes later, he comes back in new jeans and another long-sleeved T-shirt, a bathroom towel wrapped around his head, and hands me some clothes, apparently belonging to his father. Given their obvious lack of communication, I wouldn't be surprised if he just took them out of the old man's closet without asking—yet I accept the pair of clean pants and a T-shirts, and even an unopened toothbrush pack.

"Martha keeps Daddy stacked," he says as he hands the items to me. "Deodorants, aftershaves, toothbrushes, what not. Yet I don't think he uses anything but soap. The man has never been much into self-grooming, and he's not improved with age."

"Stop badmouthing him. He let us in."

"Yeah, yeah, well." He waves me away. "Go shower."

The water is hot and it feels good to wash off all the sweat and dirt from sleeping in the forest and later hiking through it. I allow myself to soak under the steady stream for a while. It feels like it's washing the thoughts out of my head, and by the time I step out and start drying my hair with a towel, I feel numb and sleepy.

I put on the cotton pants and the T-shirt Joshua brought me. They fit fine, even though the man with the walker seemed smaller than me. Perhaps he's been bigger in the past. The fabric has the now familiar stale smell to it, so it has probably spent quite a while in a closet.

I exit the bathroom and pause in the corridor, wondering if I should go say something to the owner of the house. I haven't seen him since we went upstairs. The low sloped stairwell seems accessible with a walker, but the man apparently prefers to keep to the ground floor. It strikes me that perhaps the living room has been serving him as a bedroom lately—that could explain why all the blinds were down.

Back in our room, I find Joshua tucked in his bed already. The lights are off. The window, still cracked open a little, lets in enough moonlight to allow me to find my way to the makeshift bed on the floor. I sit down with a groan, my muscles still hurting. I consider closing the window but discard the idea as paranoid. Nobody could climb in from the outside. I raise the corner of my blanket and slide underneath it.

"What do you think about bicycles?" says Joshua.

"Huh?" I pause, then ease my head onto the pillow. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was thinking at first we should get a car," Joshua says matter-of-factly, as if continuing a conversation. He twists in his bed and lies on his side and looks down at me, his face gradually getting more visible as my eyes adjust to the dark. "But whatever money the old man will be giving us we better use to rent some place and buy food. So, I thought—bicycles. He has a couple in the barn. Nobody used them for years, but we could fix them tomorrow morning and hit the road. No need in gas, so we stay clear off the gas stations with their surveillance cameras and such. No need to stick to big roads. They won't track us."

"I see you've thought this through."

"It's exciting, in a way." His eyes rest on me, unblinking. "I don't like being forced into this disappearing thing, but it could be quite an opportunity."

"For what?"

He gives a one shoulder shrug. "To start from scratch?"

I watch him, wondering. He seemed content with the life he'd been leading, so his willingness to start from scratch is a bit baffling. On the other hand, he'd lost his job, and there're apparently no family connections or romantic attachments in his life to hold him back.

"So, you say we pedal down to some big city." I stretch out on my back and put both hands under my head. "Rent a small apartment and then lay low for a while?"

"Something like that. Maybe you could go work as a construction worker or wash dishes in the restaurant or something like that. You know, some temporary jobs where nobody would notice you."

"And what will you do?" I say, and then add, struck by another idea, "And by the way, about renting—I agree that we should stick together for now, but only as roommates, right? I want to make that clear."

He chuckled quietly. "I can just sense the 'no monkey business' part coming."

"Knowing you, I want to make clear that I want nothing else between us."

"Are you sure about that?"

He slips from under his blanket and off his bed and then kneels next to me on the floor.

"What're you doing?" I start sitting up but he places a hand on my chest to keep me down.

"Just checking something."

He leans over me, his face suddenly close, his features sharp against the dark backdrop of the ceiling, and then his lips find mine.

I freeze. I want to push him away, but the sensation of his proximity stops me somehow. I close my eyes. It's just a kiss. As long as I don't look, he could be anyone. He could be a girl. I can imagine he's a girl.

I touch his hair, still damp from the shower, delaying the inevitable moment when the truth of what's happening hits me and I will have to either stop this or continue willingly. My mind is screaming for me to pick the first option, but the body votes strongly for the second.

His hand travels down my chest and abdomen. When it reaches my groin, I finally break the kiss, but it's too late.

"Verification positive." He says, his smile inches from mine, his hand rubbing me through the fabric off my pants in movements that are too pleasant to interrupt. "Should I continue?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" I grab his hand, fully intending to push it away—yet I don't. "Stop this. It's... wrong."

"Does it feel wrong?" he murmurs, lowering his head so that his lips are next to my ear.

I shake my head, unable to deny the truth yet equally unable to admit it out loud.

"I understand why you were so angry," he whispers, as his hand continues its sweet movements. "The way you looked at me. It was so obvious from the start. I couldn't understand what held you back. Now I know." He chuckles quietly. "Boy, do I know now. But you're not one of them anymore. Do you really have anything to lose?"

He kisses me again, and it feels unreal, being in this unfamiliar room with this person whom I should be helping to direct to the right path, except that I don't know what path is right anymore.

I cup his cheek with one hand—freshly shaven, his skin is smooth and cool to the touch. My other hand travels down and pauses on his chest, the absence of any noticeable breasts giving me a pause. Not that I ever touched a female breast like this, but the flat chest is yet another reminder of what's wrong with what's happening.

I can feel his nipples erect through the thin fabric, and, pushed by a sudden desire to feel him skin to skin, I pull his T-shirt up and slide my hand underneath, the skin of his abdomen hot against my palm.

To my surprise, he pulls away and sits on his heels, brushing his hair away from his face.

"Not so fast," he says, a bit out of breath, and then smiles at my expression. "You can get out of your clothes. I prefer to keep mine on."

"What?" I breath out. "But–"

"It's no big deal," he says, leaning over me again. "Plenty of stuff can be done like that."

"Wait." I pull away this time, trying to catch his gaze, but he looks away. "What's the deal with the clothes? Why don't you like to take them off?"

"I just don't," he says.

"But—" I begin, but stop, interrupted by a knock on the door.