“Good. Fine,” I said. I had taken a message from her ex-husband to say he wouldn’t be able to collect the boys till noon the next day, and all she said was “Good—we can sleep in a bit.” The boys went to their dad’s every other Saturday.

She opened her pocketbook and counted out ten dollars. I always felt funny putting it into my pocket, in case it seemed like I was being greedy. I waited until we were outside in the dark before I pushed my hand into my cutoffs.

We climbed into the Volvo. There was a faint waft of alcohol mixed with cologne. Mrs. Boucher smoked in her car, so there was always a stale smoke smell. She drove, and neither of us spoke. As we came down Horseshoe toward Forge Mountain Drive, there was something ahead of us on the road. A car. Could it be the Camaro? Everything blurred for a second. The car was stationary, the door left open, and a man, made large by the headlights of his car, was standing in the middle of the road. I made myself breathe in. Our Swedish PE teacher had told us that when Americans meet something stressful they breathe out, whereas Swedes breathe in. She’d said it was a difference in attitude about what was before us. We needed to inhale, and believe in ourselves. Be ready for the battle.

“Uh-oh,” Mrs. Boucher said, and she stopped a distance from the car. She rolled up her window. “I hate meeting things on the road at night. Lock your door.”

I locked mine, and the one behind me. We both peered out into the darkness. The man looked huge, and I was trying to see if it was Barbie Man.

“Has he hit something?” she asked. “I don’t know if I should keep driving toward him.”

I was scared. I didn’t know what to do either. I imagined creepy lowlifes from Pottstown hidden in the woods around us.

“Keep driving. Go fast,” I said. “We can go past him.” Mrs. Boucher turned to look at me. She could hear I was scared.

The man had seen us and was sort of waving, as if to say Go around. Mrs. Boucher put the car in gear, and we went toward the man and the car with the open door, driving much slower than I would have liked.

“Go faster. It’s a trap. It’s the man that picked up Ellen.” I realized I was almost shouting in the car.

She accelerated forward. We’d only gone a few feet farther when I realized who it was.

“Wait. Stop. I know him. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

“I think we should keep going,” she said. She was gripping the steering wheel with two hands. I had terrified her.

“It’s okay. It’s Dr. Adams. My friend Sage’s dad. We should stop.”