Eventually Howard lifted up his head. His face looked gray, old. His voice was flat: You did good, Danny. Under there.

Funny answers, stupid answers, answers that are a way of not answering—all these went through Danny’s head: Hey, I needed the exercise or Falling out a window was a tough act to follow but I gave it my best, or It must’ve been those injections the doc gave me, or Thank God for that trail of bread crumbs, or Tell my dad, wouldja?

But what he finally said was: I left you to die.

Howard looked up, squinting at Danny in the sun. But I didn’t die. I got out.

Danny: They found you.

Before that. I escaped with my mind. I got out of there because I wasn’t going to make it otherwise.

How?

I don’t know. I left. I went into a game. Rooms in my head. We can all do it, you know—we’re just out of practice.