Christopher paid, and laughed at her for staring at the pastries.  She was surprised at how much his laughter stung, and she glared at him. “So I’ve never had a doughnut before,” she snapped, but she enjoyed the strange feel of the word in her mouth.  The Centre had never been dull, not intellectually, but in a way her secluded life had lacked texture.  She liked London.  It was so uncontrolled.    This only caused the young bespectacled man to laugh more.  “You’ve never had a doughnut before?” he gasped incredulously.  “Where were you raised?  Mars?”  He was chuckling so much that he had to adjust his glasses to keep them from sliding off his face.    She frowned, but she found that she couldn’t keep an angry look on her face.  “I lived a very sheltered childhood,” she sighed, and it was with those words that she became morose.  What they had taken from her, she marveled.  They had given her a life, a good life away from parents who never wanted her:  healthy, and safe, a place where she could use her gifts to do something real in the world, a chance to meet Jarod and Sydney and see Blue Cove.  But she had lost cities, and birthday parties, and handshakes, and doughnuts with strangers, in the early morning, in warm bakeries while the fog lifted.    In the end, maybe it wasn’t worth it.  It certainly wasn’t fair.    Her new friend pressed the doughnut, wrapped in a paper napkin, into her hand.  It was still a bit warm.   “You think too much,” he informed her cheerily, and led her to a seat.    The doughnut was sweet, surprisingly good.  She savored each little bite.  And the tea was very hot, and he prepared it correctly, with milk and two spoonfuls of sugar for them both.  She was surprised at how hungry she was.  Running all those miles from the Centre, hiding for hours among the alleyways of London. . .she was fit enough.     But she’d never done anything like that before, of course.    Across from her Christopher chattered about the weather, and the gossip from Scotland Yard—he was some kind of civilian, on retainer for the police force.  He re-constructed accident scenes, he told her.  She had examined her share of accidents through simulation, and they’d had a measured effect on her; she wondered how someone so young and innocent-seeming could endure such a horrific job for any length of time.    At length, but before she finished the last few sips of her hot, sweet tea, he told her how terrible he felt about the abuses her imaginary lover.  She closed her eyes, savoring the taste in her mouth and the warmth in her stomach, but at last she felt the wince at the word lover, the memory and pain of bruises long healed, the shock of leaving what she’d known all her life—that one, at least, wasn’t difficult to muster.  A Pretender created a new personality by mixing up old experiences, and this was what she did to create the fantasy of Ana Brown.    “It’s all right,” she breathed, and her voice trembled.  She let the ache of betrayal become the sting of loss.  I miss him, she realized with surprise, and she wasn’t thinking of the make-believe boyfriend.  Pretending came with risks like these.  “I just wish I could find some way out of here.”    Christopher reached out and touched her hand.  She jumped, and that wasn’t a pretend feeling, either.  Well, like the old joke went, it wasn’t a pretend feeling, it was a Pretend feeling.  She almost smirked at that.  “I want to help you,” Christopher said, his eyes full of compassion.  “I’ll buy you an airplane ticket.  The airport’s only a short walk away from here.” Airport.  That was exactly what she needed.  “Thank you, very much. . .” she said tearfully.  “But you don’t. . .you don’t have to. . .”    “Miss Brown,” he said firmly, “I want to.  And don’t worry, I have enough money to pay for it.”    Ana felt a sinking feeling in her chest, an unclenching.  It took her a moment to realize it was gratitude.  “P-Please,” she stuttered, surprised and humiliated at the dampness on her face, “call me Anabelle.  Or Ana.”    Christopher smiled gently.  “Ana.  Pretty.”    The walk to the airport was short indeed, and he held her hand most of the way, until she felt comfortable enough without him.  She must be tired, she thought.  She was supposed to be paranoid, and here she was opening her soul to someone she didn’t even know.    They stopped at the desk and ordered one ticket for Dover, Delaware, on her insistence.  Dover was the nearest big city to Blue Cove, she thought, though where she pulled this information from, she’d never know.  Ana’s mind often seemed like a cobwebbed filing cabinet.    He walked with her until they reached the security check.  The only baggage she was carrying was her jade necklace, a birthday gift from Sydney, and the DSA of his murder.  She put the disc and its plastic container in the little change cup the security man gave her, and no one gave it a second look.  Not even Christopher.    The young man waved to her brightly from behind.  “Enjoy Blue Cove!” he called. She thanked him for all his kindnesses.  Ana was so sleepy, and so touched by his simple caring, that it took a long moment for the fear to shock down her spinal cord, cue the adrenaline to leak from behind her ears, and shudder.    She had not told him she was going to Blue Cove!    She whirled to look at him.  But he was already gone; he hadn’t followed her through the security console.  Yet.  She waited, waited and watched until the final call for her gate went up.  Dover would be like London, probably.  She had lost herself in this big city, and she could abandon herself in the next.  Yes, she answered, to the question she’d almost forgotten.  This is what it will always be like.    She shrugged it off.  She’d probably mentioned it at one point or another.  Yes—now she was almost sure of it.  Still, there would be something waiting for Christopher if he showed up on the next flight to Dover.    And it would not be his own, personal sweeper team.    She scampered off toward the gate.