Page 107 of Hellbent

Right now Evan felt adrift. He reached for the Commandments, but none were applicable. He’d gone down the path and arrived at a wall.

Another Jack-ism: When you’re at a wall, start climbing.

There he was, still pushing Evan from beyond the grave. Maybe that’s what this final mission was, placing Joey in his care, a living, breathing package. Maybe this was just another version of Evan walking behind Jack, filling his footsteps.

But this was a different trail. It required different rules. Evan thought of the Post-it note Mia had put up in her kitchen: Remember that what you do not yet know is more important than what you already know.

He tried to meditate again. Couldn’t.

Then he was up on his feet. Moving silently along the hall. Keying off the alarm and slipping out the front door. Riding the elevator down, still pinching his eyes, shaking his head.

Walking up to 12B. Raising a fist to knock. Lowering it. Walking away. Coming back.

He tapped gently.

There. Now it was too late.

The door opened. Mia looked at him.

“I know you’re angry with me,” he said.

“You told me you didn’t have any family,” she said. “Either you lied before. Or you’re lying now.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Save it for Facebook.”

She started to close the door.

“Wait,” he said. “Joey is from … my job. I’m trying to help her. And I wanted to keep you and Peter clear of anything that’s related to that world. So I tried to cover it up. I was dumb enough to think I was being helpful.”

“That’s even more alarming.”

He held his arms at his sides, considered his blink ratio, resisted an urge to put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure what you would have preferred me to do. At Target.”

“God,” she said, more in wonderment than anger. “You really don’t get it.”

“No.”

“How about ‘Hey, Mia. I’m in an unusual situation and I’m not sure how to talk about it with you.’ How ’bout that? Actually just being honest and trusting that we’ll figure it out? Was that an option you considered?”

He said, “No.”

She almost laughed, her hand covering her mouth. When she took her hand away, the smile was gone. “Okay. I’m angry. But I’ve also learned not to trust my first reaction. To anything. So. Let me figure out my second reaction before we talk about this anymore.”

She started to close the door again.

“I need advice,” he said, the words rushed.

It had taken a lot to get them out.

“Advice?” she said. “You’re asking me. Advice.”

“Yes.”

She pulled her head back on her neck. Blew out a breath. Let the door swing open.

Evan entered, and they sat on her couch. She didn’t offer him wine. The door to Peter’s bedroom, bedecked with Batman stickers, a pirate-themed KEEP OUT! sign, and a Steph Curry poster, was open a crack. The heat was running, the condo toasty, a few candles casting gentle light. They were grapefruit-scented—no, blood orange. A burnt-red chenille throw draped one arm of the couch. So many things he would never have thought of, the things that turn a house into a home. They were words from a different language, the language of comfort, of knowing how to belong.