To keep Spoon on track, I said, “I do.”

“Anyway, Jared Lowell is seventeen years old and a senior. He does indeed have a Facebook page, but he almost never used it—not until recently anyway. After he, uh, disappeared or whatever, he took down almost all the photographs on his page. You know this already, right?”

“I guess,” I said.

“So have you seen any pictures of him?” Spoon asked.

“Just the profile picture.”

“So you probably don’t know that he’s tall.”

I didn’t see the relevance. “Okay.”

Spoon looked me in the eye. “He’s six-four.”

My height. “Okay,” I said again.

“Or that he plays basketball. In fact, he’s the leading scorer for his high school team, averaging nineteen points per game.”

I nodded and said, “Okay.”

“Or that his father’s dead, so he only has his mother.”

I stopped saying okay.

“Did you notice that Jared kinda looks like you?”

“He doesn’t look like me,” I said.

“He’s more pretty-boy. You’re more what the ladies would call rugged. But, yeah, Mickey, there are similarities. Lots of them.”

“So what’s your point, Spoon?”

“No point. I just find it interesting that Ema fell for a guy who could be, well, you.”

I said nothing.

“Mickey?”

“What do you want me to say here, Spoon? We’re both tall and play basketball. I don’t attend a fancy-shmancy private school. I’m only a sophomore, not a senior. I don’t live with my mother—she’s in rehab, remember?”

Spoon nodded. “That’s all true.”

“And this is still feeling like a catfish to me. You were able to independently confirm that Jared Lowell is real?”

“Yes. There are articles on his ball playing, complete with photographs and statistics. He’s real.”

“I’m still thinking this is a catfish,” I said. “All the stuff you said, okay, there are similarities. So someone—maybe Troy or Buck or some other toad—found this guy online and made up a fake Facebook page—”

“No,” Spoon said.

“How’s that?”

“The Facebook page has existed for four years. It’s a little hard to explain, but the original setup ISP originated on Adiona Island—where he lives. He also used it. Not a lot. He isn’t a big Facebook guy. But it was in use and the posts are obviously not fake.”

“So Jared Lowell is real?”

“Yes.”

“And his Facebook page is his?”

“Yes.”

I pointed my palms to the sky. “So where is he now?”

“Normally I would say there is no big mystery.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there are no articles or indications that he’s missing. I assume he’s at school. If he was hurt or vanished, I think there would be something online, don’t you?”

“I do,” I said.

“All we know for certain is that he’s not currently using his Facebook page and has stopped communicating with Ema. Normally I would say that this doesn’t concern us. For whatever reason, he decided that Ema wasn’t for him and, well, was less than a gentleman about informing her.”

“Normally.”

“Right.”

“So why isn’t this ‘normally’?”

“Because nothing about us is normal, Mickey,” Spoon said. “You know that.”

I did.

“And while many photographs were taken down from his Facebook page, only one has been added since he stopped talking to Ema.”

I nodded. “The Abeona butterfly.”

“Right.”

I sighed. “So we need to see this through.”

“Right again. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

“We have our enemies, don’t we, Mickey?”

I thought about the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. He had taken my father away from the car accident. He had set Bat Lady’s house—Abeona’s headquarters—on fire while I was inside.

“We do,” I said.

“He could be another. Jared Lowell. This could be a setup.”

Spoon could be right. But it gave me another idea. “Do you remember this?”

I handed him the old black-and-white photograph. The man dressed in the Nazi uniform was, I’d been told at first, the Butcher of Lodz, a monstrous war criminal who had killed hundreds, maybe thousands, during World War II. But it wasn’t. At least not entirely.

The face belonged to the paramedic with the sandy hair and green eyes.

For a long time, I had been bewildered by this—how could a Nazi from World War II have been the paramedic who wheeled away my dad? But sometimes the simplest answer is so close to us, we can’t see.

The paramedic’s face had been Photoshopped onto the Butcher of Lodz’s body by the Bat Lady.

I still had no idea who he was.

“Sure,” Spoon said. “What about it?”

I put my finger right on the picture’s face. “You know he’s not really the Butcher of Lodz, right?”

“Right.”

“Is there any way you can figure out who he really is?”

Spoon studied the picture. He started to nod slowly. “I think maybe I can. Let me work on it, okay?”

“Okay.”

Spoon put the photograph in the drawer next to his bed. “You better let Ema in now. What do you think I should tell her?”

“The truth,” I said.

I looked down at him, in that bed, paralyzed below the waist. I was blocking on that. It was the only way to stay upright. But suddenly I felt the tears building again. Spoon looked up at me and then turned away.

“Arthur?” I said.

“Don’t call me that,” he said.

“Spoon?”

“What?”

I swallowed. “How are you? Really.”

He gave me the big smile. “Terrific!”

I just looked at him and waited. The smile faded away.

“To tell the truth,” Spoon said, “I’m a little scared.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I get that.”

Silence.

“Mickey?”

“Yeah?”

“After I talk to the girls, do you think you can hang in my room for a while?”

I managed not to cry. “For as long as you’d like.”