My house was twenty minutes away by bike during the day, but I made it there in ten—speeding down the middle of empty streets, barreling heedlessly through intersections, taking time only to stay out of the snow in order to leave no tracks.
I placed my bike carefully against the side of the house, trying to match its previous position as closely as I could, just in case; the house had to look exactly as it was when he left, so it wouldn't suspect me. I crept up the stairs and listened at our door—the TV was off, and it sounded like Mom had gone to sleep. I opened the door quietly and slipped into the darkness, locking it tightly behind me. I tore off my gloves and ski mask, grateful for the warmth, and flopped wearily onto the couch. I was safe.
But something was wrong, and I couldn't put my finger on it.
Everything seemed quiet enough, but not too quiet—the clock in the kitchen was ticking like normal, the furnace was blowing as usual. I listened at my mom's door, rubbing my hands together in the cold, and heard her low, even breathing. Everything was fine—
Why was it cold? I hadn't noticed at first, because it was so much warmer than outside, but I could tell now, especially here in the hall, that it was definitely cooler than it should have been. I opened my door to check my room, but the handle wouldn't turn. It was locked.
I'd left by the window, not the door, and the window was still open.
Mr. Crowley would be home any minute, wondering who had been watching him, and he'd see my open window and the footprints in the snow below it. He'd get suspicious; he'd wonder if it had been closed when he left. He'd come to check, and there I'd be, alone in the dark, locked out of my room, wide awake at one in the morning. Mom would wake up and ask—in front of him—how I got out of my room. He'd know, and he'd kill us both.
I started to go back to the stairs, to go outside and close it, but that would be even worse—he'd come home and see me outside, trying to climb back into the second story window, and know that I had followed him.
My bedroom door opened in, so I couldn't reach the hinges to pop them off. I thought about kicking it down, but I didn't know if I could—and I knew that Mom would hear me and wake up, and she'd never forgive me for destroying a door. I was amazed she could sleep in this cold at all. I peeked out the living room window. The street was clear. He was still gone, there was still time. What could I do?
Crowley would get suspicious if he saw me trying to hide, but what if I didn't hide at all? The street was still empty; I pulled off my coat and put on my old one—it was a different color than the one he'd seen me in—and went back outside without my gloves or ski mask. I reached the snowbank below my window and crawled up onto it just in time. Mr. Crowley's headlights appeared at the end of the street, far away. I watched them draw closer and closer, watched the car itself come into view, and just as it started to slow I ran out in front of it, waving my arms wildly in the headlights. The car screeched to a stop, and he unrolled his window.
"John, what in blazes are you doing out here?"
"Can I sleep at your house tonight?" I asked.
"What?"
"Mom and I had a fight," I said. "I jumped out of my window. I was going to run away, but. . . it's cold. Can I please sleep in your house?"
He glanced across the street at my house, my window open, and my curtains flapping faintly in the breeze.
"Please?" I asked.
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said. "My house isn't. . . it's not safe to be out like this at night, John, there are . . . prowlers. It's not safe for you or your mother."
"Don't take me back," I said, trying to summon up tears.
I couldn't. "I don't want her to know I left."
He thought a minute. I could tell he was healthier than before—more alert, more composed, and far more steady. You could barely tell he'd been sick. "If I promise not to tell your mother, will you go home?"
"My bedroom door is locked from the inside—I can't gel back in, and if she sees me in the living room she'll find out eventually."
He thought a moment longer, and glanced nervously around the neighborhood; he obviously thought his stalker was watching. "My ladder will reach," he said at last. "We can put you back in that way—but you've got to promise not to run out like this again."
"And you won't say anything to Mom?"
"I promise," he said. "Deal?"
"Deal." He drove past me into his driveway, and together we pulled his extendable ladder from his shed, and set it up under my window. "Can you get it put away by yourself?" I asked.
"I'm an old man," he said, smiling, "but I'm not helpless."
"Thanks," I said, and climbed up to my window. I got inside, waved at him, and he folded the ladder up and took it away. I closed the window tightly, closed my curtains, and watched him from the darkness. I'd fooled him again.