The PlanI gaped at him. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Mr. Hart said, “but it’s my understanding that you both wish to travel.”
Jonathan froze.
I shrugged. What I really wanted to do was leave Bridges and never return. Was that travel, or just flight?
Jon’s face turned alarmed. “May we speak privately, sir?”
Charles Hart blinked. “By all means.”
They moved out to the patio, standing in front of me not ten yards off. I couldn’t hear what was said through the glass, but I knew Jonathan: he’d been my closest friend for over a decade. Jon was angry, outraged, dismayed. Mr. Hart seemed to be trying to persuade Jon of something Jon both wanted and feared.
Mr. Hart put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder as a father might his son. Then Jon gave him an anguished, vulnerable
