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Selected passage from Chapter 3.
“Adolph,” the voice was so thin — almost a hiss — that neither of us registered the distraction until his name sounded through the room again. I saw him turn, and we saw his mother framed in the doorway, her eyes wild.
“Let’s go,” she whispered forcibly.
I felt him want to voice a question, but instead, he turned to look at his books and the electronic equipment on his desk.
“No, Adolph. Now! Leave everything!”
It was all she had to say. For a fleeting second, I felt despair and panic surge through him, but as he turned toward her, it flooded away, becoming a mixture of grief and relief. Without any more words, the pair crept, as empty-handed as mice that had to leave behind treasured crumbs and find their way out of the kitchen because, somehow, they knew that a cat was about to appear.
The air was charged, and I could sense their tension.
They were almost at the door when a crash filled the dark house.
“Go, Adolph,” his mother breathed.
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