We went out through the back garden, across the wet grass, and I punched 8-0-1-7 into the keypad with a shaking hand.

The gate clicked.

We burst out onto the dark, unlit ranch road, and behind us I could hear Dario shouting my name into the night — not frightened, not pleading, but furious, the sound of a man watching a carefully built thing come apart.

I do not remember most of that run.

I remember Kai’s hand in mine, and how small it was, and how he never once let go or slowed me down or made a sound of complaint, though he had to be running full out to keep up with me.

I remember the dark being total, the kind of country dark where you cannot see your own feet, and choosing to trust the road anyway because the alternative was behind us.