I sat there in the rec room with Beatrice and Marie, both reading their books. We had cream tiles that reflected the trees outside, so that the floor always seemed to be moving, shadows shifting light and dark from the swaying branches outside. The phone ringing jolted me.

“I’ll get it,” I said, though no one else was moving. It was Sage.

“Charlotte’s bringing me to work in a few minutes, but I have to tell you something first.” I took the phone into the laundry room, where the others couldn’t hear me.

“What?”

“Last night, up at the tower, Abbey said Wilson was there earlier, trying to get a few boys together—you know, getting them to promise to go with him to take some pervert out. That the guy they were going to take care of had hurt a little girl from the mountain.”

I sank into the pile of dirty clothes on the floor in front of the washing machine.

“Oh my God.”

“I know.”

“Did he say who we were? Did Abbey know it was Ellen?”

“I don’t think so. She would’ve said.”

“Did they go?”

“No. Well, not last night. Wilson said he was still finding the guy. But asking would they help him. He’d give them dime bags of pot, and he’d get a case of beer after.”

“Why’s he doing this?”

“I don’t know. Look, he’ll probably never find the guy anyway.”

My mouth had gone so dry, the words seemed stuck. “Why can’t he just leave us alone?”

“Tell your mom, Libby.”

I shook my head. “Can’t.”

When I stood to hang up the phone, I saw that I’d been sitting on Ellen’s dirty uniform, silt, blood, and grit visible on the shirt. She had just left it there. Everything seemed out of control. I threw the clothes into the washing machine and ran a long cycle and went back out to the rec room. The others were still reading, oblivious to all the trouble coming toward us.

I would tell Marie later and get her to get Wilson to back off, to stay away. I curled up on the sofa next to Beatrice, pulling my knees to my chest. I could feel the twill fabric against my cheek as I lay there watching the patterns on the floor. I tried to slow my breathing. After he left, Dad had stayed on the sofa once for almost a week when he was very sick. It pulled out into a bed, and we had made it up with sheets and blankets for him. My mom had called a doctor. It was a time when everything felt right, my mother sitting on the edge of the pull-out sofa putting a thermometer under his tongue and cool cloths on his head, all of us taking care of him. Even then I knew it wasn’t real.