But this time, the words are devoid of emotion. When the session is over, Sydney pulls a small, spiral-bound book from the bottom drawer of his desk, the drawer that locks.  The book is marked with the Centre insignia, and in smaller letters, identified as part of the Pretender Project.    It is a short list of vocabulary words not, under any circumstances, to be taught to the young Pretender at this stage in his psychological development or educational curriculum. Sydney had helped to write it, years ago. He traces his fingers down the dog-eared pages.   Number forty-three is LONLINESS. The Falls Apartments Boston, Massachusetts November 7    For a moment, Jarod almost wishes he was back in the car.  The men still holding him, bruising him with their touches, are just cruel; Jarod knows right away that the man standing before him will really hurt him.  This is the kind of villain in those grown-up books, the kind that hurts little kids for no good reason.    He wants his mother.  He wants his father.  He wants to curl up in the little nook that belongs all to him in their attic at home, and pull the tiny brown baby quilt around his shoulders and cry and cry.   “Hello, little boy,” the man growls.  “What’s your name?”    Four year old Jarod, terrified and confused though he is, is not fooled by the man’s words.  Nothing that came from a place this bad could ever be nice, least of all this cigarette-smoking. . .monster.  He curls away, almost into the arms of his captors.  “Jarod,” he murmurs, but his child’s voice is small and tremulous.    “What do you want us to do with him, Dr. Raines?”  This from the tall black man on Jarod’s left.    The man, Dr. Raines, takes a drag on his cigarette and seems to think for a moment.  “Put him in isolation, twenty-four hours.” Dr. Raines commands.  “Find Sydney.”  He drops his cigarette onto the polished white tile and snuffs it out with a toe.    Another long walk, this time without the stifling hood, through a labyrinth of corridors and doors, twisting and turning until Jarod doesn’t even know if he could find his way back.    Then they shove him into a dark room.  A door slams.  Tumblers click harshly. He is entirely, completely alone.  The shock is passing, and he is tired, overwhelmed, disoriented, crippled.  They have abandoned him.  They don’t even. . .they don’t even care.  The feelings he has stifled all night refuse to be pushed away; they rush over him, and he sobs.  Shaking, he drops to his hands and knees, in his choo-choo train pajamas and cries.    And cries.    Jarod blinked.    He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, digging his fingers into his sleeping bag he used as a coverlet.  His fingertips still had a tremor, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but he did not permit himself to cry out.  He was woken by nightmares more often than not; this night was no different from a thousand others.    He would not fall back to sleep.  After a few moments of half-hearted effort, he rolled out of bed, shuffled to the refrigerator, and made himself a glass of chocolate milk.    The apartment was small, stark, and standard.  There was a living and dining room, with a not-too-old TV and a round dinner table for four, which he kept his laptop, notebook, and DSAs on.  Connected to the living room, but separated by a small bar, was a kitchen with a puce green fridge—empty save for the milk and a dozen eggs—a row of very empty cabinets, a set of pots and pans which had come with the apartment, a black Mr. Coffee, and a mug which read The Only Person Who Really Knows What’s Going On.    It had also come with the apartment.    There was a small bedroom, with a twin bed and one dresser, and a small, white-tiled, and nondescript bathroom, as well.    He had paid extra for the furniture.    Jarod had moved in yesterday morning.  He would be gone before the week was out.  The lack of permanence used to bother him, but in the two and a half years since he had run away from the Centre, he had gotten used to it.    Or at least, he tolerated it.  He would never feel comfortable, especially at night, when shadows and silhouettes, combined with the lateness of the hour and his razor-sharp imagination, could easily flip him into a black-and-white flashback of his former life, or turn a bedroom into a Simlab so accurate, he could almost hear Sydney’s voice.    He wrapped his hand around the chill glass and walked back out into the living room, snatching a Pez dispenser from the tabletop as he moved past.  It was grape-flavored, one of his favorites, and it came from a plastic turkey head, a reminder of the time of year.    Jarod had become very interested in the tradition of Thanksgiving for a short while.  He was not particularly religious, or, he didn’t think so.  His experience with such a holiday was of a different and rather limited sort.  It was, to Jarod, a time when families got together around a dinner table to eat simple, good food and laugh and be together.  Apparently, people found a way to their families on this designated day, even going across the country to find people they loved.    Jarod had been looking for his family forever; his first Thanksgiving had been a lonely one and it was likely the second one would be, too.    He found a spot on the floor where he could watch the sun rise, through his east-facing window, and sat down.  The first few rays of red glowed over the horizon.  In a few hours, he would start getting ready for work.    Jarod ate Pez and drank chocolate milk and hoped that the sugar rush and the events of the day would bury the empty ache of loneliness, which trailed him much more efficiently than the Centre ever would.  He would call Sydney, he decided.  Later. It hadn’t always been like this.  Freedom treated Jarod better than his life at the Centre ever had.    Such an incredible amount of space!  So many things to do, so many interesting things to read and find and discover.  From Pez to blues to doughnuts, five hundred glasses of chocolate milk and two cavities later, and it was still fascinating.     That was it, though.  He was fascinated, diverted, entertained, amused.  He could become engrossed in his work; satisfied; exhausted, even.