When they finally reached Chiutza, hours later, Luke was sweating despite the cold, and his bones were jarred from so much bouncing.

"Quickly," Officer Houk ordered, hurrying everyone out of the jeep. "Get everyone in the town square by" — he glanced at his watch—"eleven o'clock. Each of you take one street then report back and I'll assign the next one."

"Street" was too fancy a word for the trash-strewn paths lying before them. Luke could tell that once upon a time, years and years and years ago, Chiutza had had nicely paved streets and concrete sidewalks and sturdy houses. Now the streets were more gravel than pavement, the sidewalks fell off into gaping holes, and the houses were ramshackle, with doors hanging loose and windows patched with plastic.

"Stop gawking and go!" Officer Houk shouted.

Luke saw that the driver and the other boy were scur-rying to the right and straight ahead, so Luke veered to the left. The first house he came to looked somehow sadder than all the rest, because it had clearly once been quite grand. It had two stories while most of the others had only one, and it was surrounded by a painted fence, now broken down in decay.

Don't look, Luke told himself.

He pushed aside a cracked gate and went to pound on the front door.

"Open up! Population Police!" he shouted.

And then he shivered, because who was he to be yelling those words? He remembered his brother Mark playing cruel tricks on him when he was a child, pretending Luke's worst nightmares had come true. He remembered a time he'd heard those words from the inside of a house, when he'd had to hide to save his life.

And he remembered another time, when he'd been caught and carried away….

Desperately, Luke shoved himself against the door, as if he could escape his own memories. The door gave way, rusty hinges tearing away from rotting wood. Luke stumbled into a dim living room and found an old woman sitting on a faded couch. Sitting there knitting, as if she'd had no intention of answering the door.