I sit up, gasping as if I’ve been drowning.

“Where am I?” I ask, my eyes darting across the room before I make eye contact with Jameson. He’s sprawled across a chair to my right, lazily reading a book.

“Relax, Adele,” he says, now at my side. But my mind is still racing. I can’t seem to remember anything that has happened in the last two weeks. I start hyperventilating, and he grabs my wrists. “Adella,” he says. I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of this new environment—of him.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, though I’m really telling myself. I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. In a shaken voice I ask, “What’s going on Jameson?”

“You don’t remember?” he asks, confused. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

“Well, I was packing for our case. They said it was going to be a long one, and, and—well that’s… it.” Hope floods Jameson’s face.

“And you’re sure that’s all you remember?”

“Yes. How are you happy about that?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. The less you know, the better.”

“What?” I’m so confused.

“On the case, we saw things we were never supposed to see, and now they want us dead because of it. But if you don’t remember anything, you have a real shot at survival.”

“So what now, Jameson? We’re on the run for the rest of our lives?” I say sarcastically.

“Exactly,” he says. I throw a pillow at him.

“This is not happening!” I say.

“It is, Adele. But I need you to do something for me—try, try to remember something. We need to know exactly how much you do, and don’t, remember.” I push my mind, trying to claw back my memories that are covered in spiderwebs of blankness. I’m able to remember one thing—Rick.

“Rick, Jameson! Where is Rickinson?”

“Adele,” he says in a tone as if I’m an animal he’s trying not to spook.

“No, Jameson, he’s our partner. He should be here too. He was with us, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then where is he?” I look around but see no sign of anyone but us.

“He didn’t make it,” Jameson says solemnly, looking at his feet.

“What? No, this can’t be happening! I knew him since he was ten—we grew up together! He is not dead!” I say frantically.

Eventually, Jameson is able to calm me down.

“Where are we, anyways?” I say, taking in the extravagant living room, the residue of tears still on my face.

“It’s my grandfather’s,” Jameson says.

“What?” I’m speechless.

“Yep.”

“Your grandfather is rich!” I say while looking around again, assessing it under the lens of this new information.

“Yeah,” Jameson says, embarrassment etched into his features. Just like that, the sound of something being knocked over echoes throughout the house.

“Jameson, what was that?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but we should leave.” He starts to spray this sickly sweet, white spray over the area of the living room we were in. As soon as it touches a surface, it disappears.

“What is that?” I ask.

“It gets rid of things like fingerprints. I sprayed it over everything we touched. It’ll be like we were never even here,” he says.

“Where’d you get it?” He doesn’t say anything.

“You can’t tell me that either?” I guess.

“Have I said I was sorry?” And then there’s another noise. I move a little closer to Jameson.

“Follow me.” He leads me to the staircase.

“You know,” I whisper to him, “if I were trying to escape, I’d go out the back door, not go up to the second story.”

“I have two bags packed, and there’s a tree that we could climb down.” I don’t reply; I’m still mad he won’t tell me anything. We enter a room and he sprays the doorknobs.

“Open the window, I’ll get the bags.” Once everything is set and Jameson’s sprayed every inch of the room, I look him in the eyes.

“Tell me, have you gone mad?” I ask.

“Almost,” he replies, and then we are off, shutting the window behind us.

And that’s how it’s been lately—every day is a new city, new people, a new bed, and a lot of disappearing spray. That’s what me and Jameson decided to call his magical spray that he won’t tell me the story behind. And today is just like any other day on the run.

Currently, we’re on our way to catch a train that will take us to Chicago, and we cut through a trailer park that’s half empty. I swear it feels like we’re in a scene from a horror movie. It’s late and dark. The ground and vehicles are still wet from a recent rain, and the moon casts down an eerie light. I shudder but keep running since Jameson is already a few steps ahead of me.

“What was that?” Jameson says, on alert, stopping in his tracks.

“What was what?” I ask.

“I swear I saw a person,” Jameson says. We keep going, but more carefully. I turn my head to the left and look down an aisle of trailers as we run.

“I see it,” I say. At the end of the aisle is a figure, but it’s too dark to make out any of its details.

“Come on,” Jameson says while turning and starts to walk towards the mysterious figure. I run up to him.

“You know, the number one mistake all the victims make in horror movies is going into the dark basement!”

“Well, then it’s a good thing we aren’t going into one, huh.” I roll my eyes.

“This is basically the equivalent!” I say. “And aren’t you obsessed with staying alive, or have you developed a death wish?” He turns and grabs my shoulders.

“Adele, if that person was sent by the government, we would be dead. But we’re not. So what if he wants to help?”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll run, like we always do.” I wrap my arm around his, and we continue on. Once we get closer, I can start to make out the man’s details. He has the iciest of blue eyes and blonde hair that’s practically white. He’s tall but not taller than Jameson. His facial features contrast sharply with the sleek, long, black, expensive coat he has on.

“Who are you?” Jameson says firmly to the man. Then Jameson steps halfway in front of me.

“Get ready to run,” he whispers, and I nod.

“Adella Sisoleas, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man says, completely ignoring Jameson.

“How do you know me?” I say defensively.

“Your father was a great scientist back when he was presumably alive, and I had the pleasure of learning everything I know from him.”

“What?” I never knew my father. And is he implying that he’s dead? “What—what do you mean?” I stutter.

“Adele,” Jameson warns, grabbing my wrist. Like always, his touch calms my emotions and clears the fog that’s settled in my mind.

“I never knew my father, Jameson,” I say, my eyes pleading with him. He lets his grasp on me go, though I still feel the warmth from where he touched me, like a nicotine patch allowing me to go on. I walk up to the man.

“What do you know about my father?” I ask.

“Many things,” he says. “Come closer, and I’ll show you.”

“Show me?” Intrigued, I step forth even though I hear Jameson’s pleas that I don’t. The man grabs my head and pulls it close to his, but all he says is my name.

“Adella Sisoleas.” I lock eyes with him and the words ring through my body like ripples in a pool. I’m lost in his ice-cold stare, and suddenly it feels as if I’ve found a lost poem my brain’s been desperately searching for.

I gasp. The memories flood back—everything makes sense now. I know who I’ve come from, the pain and heartbreak caused by the hardships that my family faced. I know who I am—no, what I am. It feels as if I know everything, like my mind’s accessed a new part of itself that contains the knowledge of the world. I remember what happened on the case, the one Jameson is so scared to tell me about, and I finally understand why. But one thing is clear amongst the chaos running amok inside me— Jameson and I need to **_run_**.