The Leftovers. Tom Perrotta

every couple of blocks to gaze down at the bay and pronounce it awesome.

      Christine kept moving in and out of focus on him. Yes, she was a visiting dignitary—Mr. Gilchrest’s wife or whatever—but she was also just a kid, younger than his own sister and a lot less worldly, a small-town Ohio girl, who, until she ran away from home, had never been to a city bigger than Cleveland. But not really like his sister, either, because people didn’t stop and stare at Jill when she walked down the street, tripped up by her unearthly beauty, trying to figure out if she was famous, if they’d seen her on TV or something. He wasn’t sure how to treat Christine, if he should think of himself as a personal assistant or a surrogate big brother, or maybe just a helpful friend, a caring, slightly older guy showing her around an unfamiliar metropolis.

      “I had a nice day,” she told him over a late-afternoon snack at Elmore’s, a café on Cole Street that was full of Barefoot People, hippies with bullseyes painted on their foreheads. The Bay Area was their spiritual homeland. “It’s good to be out of the house.”

      “Anytime,” he said. “I’m happy to do it.”

      “Sooo.” Her voice was low, slightly flirtatious, as if she suspected him of withholding good news. “Have you heard anything?”

      “About what?”

      “You know. When he’s getting out. When I can go back.”

      “Back where?”

      “To the Ranch. I really miss it.”

      Tom wasn’t sure what to tell her. She’d seen the same TV reports he had. She knew that Mr. Gilchrest had been denied bail, and that the authorities were playing hardball, seizing the organization’s assets, arresting several top and midlevel people, squeezing them for damaging information. The FBI and State Police made no secret of the fact that they were actively searching for the underage girls Mr. Gilchrest claimed to have married—not because they’d done anything wrong, but because they were victims of a serious crime, endangered minors in need of medical care and psychological counseling.

      “Christine,” he said, “you can’t go back there.”

      “I have to,” she told him. “It’s where I live.”

      “They’ll make you testify.”

      “No, they won’t.” She sounded defiant, but he could see the doubt in her eyes. “Wayne said everything would be okay. He’s got really good lawyers.”

      “He’s in big trouble, Christine.”

      “They can’t put him in jail,” she insisted. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

      Tom didn’t argue; there was no point. When Christine spoke again, her voice was small and frightened.

      “What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Who’s gonna take care of me?”

      “You can stay with us for as long as you want.”

      “I don’t have any money.”

      “Don’t worry about it.”

      This didn’t seem like the right time to tell her that he didn’t have any money, either. He and Max and Luis were technically volunteers, donating their time to the Healing Hug Movement in exchange for room and board and a paltry stipend. The only cash in his pocket had come from the envelope Christine had handed him when she’d arrived, two hundred dollars in twenties, the most money he’d seen in a long time.

      “What about your family?” he asked. “Is that a possibility?”

      “My family?” The idea seemed funny to her. “I can’t go back to my family. Not like this.”

      “Like what?”

      She tucked her chin, examining the front of her yellow T-shirt, as if searching for a stain. She had narrow shoulders and very small breasts, hardly there at all.

      “Didn’t they tell you?” She ran her palm over her flat belly, smoothing the wrinkles from her shirt.

      “Tell me what?”

      When she looked up, her eyes were shining.

      “I’m pregnant,” she said. He could hear the pride in her voice, a dreamy sense of wonder. “I’m the One.”

Part Two

      THE CARPE DIEM

      JILL AND AIMEE HEADED OUT right after dinner, cheerfully informing Kevin that they didn’t know where they were going, what they were doing, who they would be with, or when they might be home.

      “Late,” was all Jill could tell him.

      “Yeah,” agreed Aimee. “Don’t wait up.”

      “It’s a school night,” Kevin reminded them, not bothering to add, as he sometimes did, that it was odd how going nowhere and doing nothing could take up so much time. The joke just didn’t seem that funny anymore. “Why don’t you try to stay sober for once? See what it’s like to wake up in the morning with a clear head.”

      The girls nodded earnestly, assuring him that they had every intention of heeding this excellent advice.

      “And be careful,” he continued. “There are a lot of freaks out there.”

      Aimee grunted knowingly, as if to say that no one needed to tell her about freaks. She was wearing kneesocks and a short cheerleader skirt—light blue, not the maroon and gold of Mapleton High—and had deployed her usual unsubtle arsenal of cosmetics.

      “We’ll be careful,” she promised.

      Jill rolled her eyes, unimpressed by her friend’s good-girl act.

      “You’re the biggest freak of all,” she told Aimee. Then, to Kevin, she added, “She’s the one people need to watch out for.”

      Aimee protested, but it was hard to take her seriously, given that she looked less like an innocent schoolgirl than a stripper halfheartedly pretending to be one. Jill gave the opposite impression—a scrawny child playing dress-up—in her cuffed jeans and the oversized suede coat she’d borrowed from her mother’s closet. Kevin experienced the usual mixed feelings seeing them together: a vague sadness for his daughter, who was so clearly the sidekick in this duo, but also a kind of relief rooted in the thought—or at least the hope—that her unprepossessing appearance might function as a form of protective camouflage out in the world.