Johnathan Carver woke on the evening of October 12 to a familiar scent. It was a dank, musky odor that he knew all too well.

And it made him angry.

Goddamn it, Straker.

Breathing through clenched teeth, he got up and went to the mirror. His reflection showed a hard, angular face with sunken cheeks. His eyes were red and his curly blonde hair tangled. He stayed up too late last night. That was his one perpetual vice. Some men drank, some smoked, John Carver stayed up late.

The smell wafted into his nostrils, and he got even angrier. He glanced at the window and saw a lighted window across a stockade fence. He walked over and peered out. He saw a young girl with short brown hair washing dishes. His fists clenched and his teeth grinded. He could already feel the desire rising within him, the dark, deadly pressure that had, in the past, led him to go too far, to get sloppy, to get himself run out of towns by angry mobs and chased through the wilderness by men with weapons. Flashing, he brought his fist down on the window sill with such force that it cracked. Damn it. Damn it. He sat on the edge of the bed and raked his long, slender fingers through the mess of his hair. When the door opened behind him, he stiffened.

"Ah, you're awake," Straker said. "Much later than I expected."

Carver looked over his shoulder to see Straker setting a silver platter on the credenza. A silver tea pot sat next to a mug with a floral scheme. Carver turned away and glared at the vague outline of his reflection in the glass.

"I imagine you're cross –"

"Yes, very."

"– but it's all that was available on such short notice." Straker poured a measure of liquid into the cup, came to Carver's side, and held it out. Carver took it without looking at the pathetic bastard and drank.

"In the entire Detroit metro area," Carver said, "this was the only private residence for rent? There wasn't a ranch house? A cabin? A trailer?"

"This house met all of your specifications."

Carver flashed again, slamming his fist into his thigh and looking up at his partner with wide, crazy eyes.

"Finding accommodations, quickly, is not easy in America without a fair amount of money. And as you know, your fortune has been slowly dwindling..."

Carver got slowly to his feet, his 6 foot 10 inch frame towering over Straker. Carver leaned close, and Straker twitched almost imperceptibly. "I can't control myself," the tall man said in a strained whisper. "Not with...them around." He bared his teeth.

"I'm sure you can contain..."

"I can't!" Carver roared, pointing toward the window. "There's a house full of teenage girls ten feet from where I sleep, and you expect me to 'contain' myself?"

"I can always move your..."

"No," Carver said in that dangerous whisper, "that won't help. We're too close. Find another domicile. I don't care if it's a shack in the woods."

"Your things?"

"Burn them, smash them to bits, I frankly don't care anymore." Carver put his hands on his hips. "In case you've forgotten, they're after us. The name of the game, dear Richard, is hide-without-drawing-undue-attention-to-ourselves. Putting me into a situation where I will lose control is absolutely not the way to win the game."

"I understand," Straker nodded. "I did what I could with what you required of me."

Carver sat down and handed his cup to Straker, who refilled it. "Please find somewhere else," Carver said. "I will waive my specifications. Find a double wide in the country. I don't care."

Straker nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And get my coat. I'm going out."

"Yes, sir."

After finishing his second cup, Carver got up and went downstairs. Straker was waiting in the foyer and helped Carver into his coat, a long, black wool affair with black buttons. "I need to clear my head," he told his servant. "Start house hunting immediately."

Straker nodded. "Yes, sir."

Grabbing a gold-tipped cane from a stand by the door, Carver went out into the chilly October night. He paused on the doorstep, flipped up his collar, and continued to the sidewalk. His plan was to go right, but his legs carried him left, as he knew they would. He tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, but his head turned of its own violation, as he knew it would. The house was unassuming, white with dormers and a covered porch. Carver had seen a million of them. Toys, sports equipment, and trash littered the lawn. He spied a pink Power Wheel and a deflated basketball. He glanced up, and saw movement in the front windows, the faintest suggestion of a shadow. He drew a deep, shuddery breath and slowed his pace. They were close, and many.

Staying awake later was John Carver's perpetual vice. His other, infrequent vice, was young girls. It had always been so, even in his youth. Their life, their vitality, their vivaciousness...it was enough to drive a man mad, wasn't it? Even a man as refined as he.

Shaking his head, he pressed on into the cold night, eventually breaking free of the intoxicating perfume surrounding the house next door. Free and with a clear mind, he roamed the nighttime streets of Royal Woods, meeting only the occasional other walker. When he passed them, he nodded and smiled. As far as he wandered, though, he knew that he would eventually have to return to the house on Franklin Avenue, and he didn't trust himself to be there: He had learned long ago that he would lose his grip in the presence of so many girls. It had happened again and again over the years. Once, he went into a girl's group home in a town faraway and laid waste, extinguishing seven lives and taking one for his own. He kept her chained in a basement for close to three years before she mustered the resolve to rip her own throat out with her bare hands, so tired was she of her lot. Further back, there was an orphanage and state policemen tracking him through the forest. The details were fuzzy. It felt like it could have been a century ago.

Damn you, Straker.

Before long, Carver found himself in a wide, wooded lot; he'd been so deep in thought that he'd walked right off the street and into the wilderness. It was a cemetery, he discovered when he nearly tripped over a headstone. Carver liked cemeteries. They were places of peace and tranquility. He looked down at the marker and read the inscription. JOHN KROG 1970-2003. Carver went to the next one. JAMES MURPHEY 1954-1991. The third: ERIC FREEMAN 1940-1979. Carver noticed a theme. They were all young. Relatively speaking. In this day and age a man can live to 90 and no one bats an eye.

He walked the rows, looking at headstones and contemplating the life and times of those interred. He was delaying the inevitable. He would have to return at some point. The longer he was away, the smaller the chance he would go off the rails.

Shortly, he came to a street bordering the cemetery and followed it, passing small houses huddled against the chill night. He caught the occasional flicker of blue TV light through darkened windows, and he wondered how people could content themselves with passively sitting in front of a screen and whiling away their time. Life was so short; blink and it's gone.

The majority of human beings are slack-jawed idiots who drift from one material possession to the next, from temporary indulgence to temporary indulgence. Their lives are pointless, without meaning, a candle flicker in the wind.

And they had no clue.

It was a depressing thought.

Hours later, in the soft blue light preceeding dawn, John Carver started for home. Humpf. Home. There's a laugh. Was there such a thing as 'home'? For him anyway?

There was not, he realized not for the first time. He was a tumbleweed, a drifter moving from town to town, never setting down roots, always on the run. Setting down roots was dangerous. When you set down roots, you opened yourself up to discovery.

Home was where he happened to sleep. Therefore, Franklin Avenue was home for now. But if he lost control...

Lucy brushed her teeth, spat into the sink, and smiled at herself in the mirror. That smile slowly died when she realized, for the first time, just how pale she was. She didn't mind her complexion...but did Lincoln? Did it gross him out? She wanted to look pretty for him, but, come to think of it, she had absolutely no idea what he considered "pretty." Everyone had a different definition, didn't they? What is pretty to one is ugly to another. She knew he once (and still?) had a crush on a girl named Cristina, a snooty little thing with brown hair. Was it brown? Lucy didn't know. She'd only seen Miss Thang in passing in the halls. She struck Lucy as another Taylor Hogan. Haughty and too good for everyone else. Cristina's skin tone was normal. Maybe if she got some sun...

"Out," Lori said, coming into the bathroom, "I gotta pee."

Putting her toothbrush back in the holder, Lucy left the bathroom and went to her door, pausing to look at Lincoln's. It was closed, a crack of light showing under the bottom. She wondered what he was doing in there. Reading a comic book? Playing a video game? Would he let her in if she asked? Would he let her curl up on his bed and follow along as he charted the adventures of Ace Savvy?

Sighing sadly, she went into her room and dropped onto her bed. Lynn was lying in her bed and watching sports highlights on her phone. A clandestinely acquired bag of frozen mixed vegetables was pressed against her crotch. Lucy smiled as she remembered the looks on their faces when the itching started. That moment when they realized they were doomed. No one was speaking to Luan; the last time Lucy saw her, she was sitting at her desk trying to repair the shattered remains of her camcorder. Lucy felt a little bad about it getting broken, but hey, chuckles should have thought about that before she picked on Lincoln until he threw his breakfast against the wall (a mess she, Lucy, hurriedly cleaned).

Presently, Lynn threw her head back against her pillow and moaned. "Itching powder sucks." She turned to look at Lucy.

"Does it still itch?"

"No," Lynn said, "it burns."

Oh?

"Is it supposed to burn?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" She rubbed the bag against herself and hissed. "I should have knocked her out."

"That's a harsh way to react."

"You wouldn't be saying that if it was your vag burning up. You're lucky."

Lucy shrugged. "I don't wear thirty pairs of underwear a day." To keep up appearances, she dumped her underwear into a laundry basket and handed it to Luan, who, the sisters had decided, would be responsible for washing everyone's unmentionables. After all, she's the one who put itching powder in them.

"Because you're gross," Lynn said. "You probably smell like a tuna factory."

"You're the one who's constantly playing sports and sweating. You probably smell like the inside of a locker room toilet."

That shocked Lynn into a laugh. "Wow, sis, that was good." She tossed the bag onto Lucy's bed. "Why don't you sniff it and see if you're right?"

Using her index finger and thumb, Lucy picked up the bag and dropped it to the floor. "Uh, no."

In his room, Lincoln set his alarm, turned out his lamp, and snuggled under the covers. His mind went back to Lynn scooting across the floor like a dog, and he laughed. Good one, Luce. He was surprised (and a little taken aback) to find himself remembering her melodious giggle and the way she kicked her legs back and forth as she told him about her deeds, and thinking it was cute...