As time went on, and most of Kent’s missions ended less than successfully, he found himself cutting back on them. There was a limit to how many times he could set out to find the truth, only to get lost in a crowd, or to be a little too slow around a corner. He was tired of coming up empty-handed after so much effort. And while Tara wasn’t acting any better, she didn’t seem to be getting any worse either. Stasis was not the desired result, but it beat the pants off of further decline.

Which wasn’t to say that it was good enough, or that he was about to stop trying. He still found one afternoon a week, sometimes two, where he waited outside the school for Tara and followed her. He took precautions to keep her from identifying him, which were usually very basic. He’d pretended to read the same newspaper for over a month, and wore his coat inside-out, showing off the plaid flannel lining. He made sure to stay at least half a block away, and ducked behind lampposts and into shops whenever she turned around. And then, when the coast was clear again, he continued on the trail, determined to find out whatever she was hiding from him.

It never even occurred to him that his actions, when viewed from afar, might seem suspicious.