His parents are nice people. He can see how hard they work. He can see how lucky he is. He can see how unusual this is. He can read the papers. He can appreciate how blessed he is, with food and clothes and a roof and hardworking people who love him, sitting here, being together, sharing a meal. He can see how this summer is an island, with plenty of time and plenty of freedom and plenty of food and nice people to watch over him. Still, as he eats, he’s biding his time, waiting for dark and the ominous hum and the sure sense that something is out there, far away but growing near.