It got dark.

Trey’s mind recoiled from calculating just how long that meant he’d been hiding behind the flowerpot. It had been early morning when he’d arrived at Mr. Talbot’s house. It was dusk now. He’d waited a very long time.

Trey imagined what would happen if he never moved, if nobody ever came for him.

I’d die of hunger or thirst, he thought. How long would it be before someone discovered my corpse? Maybe he’d be a skeleton by then. Nobody would know who I was.

Trey was scaring himself But he had to. He had to make it seem scarier to stay hidden than to venture out.

You’re hungry now, aren’t you? he challenged himself Aren’t you starving? You’ve got to get some food.

But his stomach, which had become more than accustomed to hunger over the years, just said, Hey, don’t pin this on me. I can wait.

Trey’s legs were stiff from huddling in one position for so long. He thought maybe he’d been asleep part of the time, but it was a strange sort of sleep, where any noise, any hint of movement — a bird fluttering in the sky, say— could snap him to full alertness. Still, he’d managed to dream. He’d had strange dreams where his father was alive again, and standing on the porch lecturing him. Only, in the dream, Trey’s ears didn’t seem to be working, and he couldn’t understand anything his father said. He could just tell that his father was very worried.

“Symbolism,” Trey muttered to himself. “Dreams are often metaphorical representations of the dreamer’s fears.”

Or wishes.

Trey gave a little half-snort of disgust at himself, that he could think about symbolism and metaphors at a time like this. He needed to think about action. He needed a plan. He shook his head as if that would clear his mind of fancy, useless words and lingering dreams and cobwebs.