James takes a second to consider the question, but he shakes his head soon enough. No, Mr. Sawyer isn't here. He can't be. Bad people like Mr. Sawyer have to run, otherwise the police catch them real quick, and that hasn't happened, so Mr. Sawyer must be a long, long distance away by now, James thinks, the very thought making him grip his pen more tightly in frustration. Most days, he can't tell whether or not he's scared, or if caring is so far from him now that he could go out there and look for the man himself. It's the indecision that ultimately keeps him rooted in one place, the door out seeming to close further and further every day.

"He ran away," James manages to say in an undertone, his pen carefully meeting paper again.

You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done.