His shirt was streaked with dried blood, and both of his palms were wrapped in fresh white gauze. A hospital visitor sticker was still stuck to his jacket. Theresa stood up so fast her chair tipped over. “Where is Jace?” she whispered. “Is he hurt?” Logan shook his head quickly. “He’s okay. He’s at County General. He wouldn’t leave.”

“Leave who?” I asked. Logan looked at Theresa, not at me, and his chin started trembling. “We didn’t know how to tell you,” he said. “Jace found him in August, living alone in that trailer out on Route 12. He couldn’t remember to eat. We’ve been taking care of him every weekend.” He took a shaky breath. “Tonight he fell through the storm door. Mrs. Kessler, it’s your dad.”