Why hadn’t I told her? I put my hand on the door to open it and call her back, to say we needed help. But I hated asking people for things. Maybe she would pass Ellen on her way down the mountain. I began to think of all the people that might pass Ellen on their way home. Surely one of them would stop. In her uniform she would be easily recognized.

I played games with the boys and put them into bed. I read Goodnight Moon to Bruce, who was two, and Peter Rabbit to Peter, who was five. Bruce sucked his thumb and snuggled into me. He had a moon lamp in his room and was asleep by the time I’d gotten to the “Goodnight, room” part. Peter liked to take his book after I’d read it and look at all the pictures in detail. I pretended that he was a rabbit, so we rubbed noses goodnight and I reminded him to clean his fur and to put down his ears to sleep.

I left him and went upstairs to the living room. The whole time I listened in case the phone rang. At ten I picked it up and made sure the dial tone was working, then placed it carefully back on the cradle. I wanted to call home, but my mother would answer the extension in her bedroom. I called Sage, who was the one person in the world other than Marie or Thomas who would instantly understand.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. I’m at the Bouchers’. My mom kicked Ellen out of the car tonight when it was dark. On the bridge over the turnpike. She’s walking home, but I don’t think she got there yet.”

“By the turnpike? Poor Ellen. That road’s so lonely.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll get Charlotte to go out in the car,” Sage said. “You know she would.”

“No. Please don’t. It would make things worse. My mom could get in trouble.”

“So. What if she does?”

“Don’t say anything to your mom. I’ll call you when I hear that she’s home.” I went back to the couch and tried to watch television, but I couldn’t concentrate. If I had just told Mrs. Boucher, maybe we would have found Ellen and all this would be over.

At ten thirty the phone rang. It was Marie. “She hasn’t come home yet.”

“Oh God. I feel sick.”

“She’s not on the road. She must have tried to go through the woods.”

“How do you know?”

“Wilson McVay went out and drove the whole route on his motorcycle, and he didn’t see her.”

“You called Wilson McVay?”

“Yeah. Who else could I call?”

“Anybody but him. He’s crazy, Marie.”

“People who say that don’t know him.”