I keep going, but the fact that I can’t see him on this street, and knowing he didn’t get much of a head-start…he must have gone up one of the side streets. I hang right on the next one, calling Sam’s name now, making strangers stare. At the next avenue I scan both ways and turn left, continuing in the direction I’d been going. I’m trying not to overthink the route. He was upset, he wanted to get away. I follow what seems most intuitive.
   How could you have let this happen? How could you, Gillian?
   Of course I couldn’t be a mother! Look at me. How could I take care of an infant when I can’t take care of a ten-year-old boy? I swipe my phone for my sister’s number and hit Call, thinking I might be sick. I don’t know how I’m going to say these words to her. But she doesn’t pick up and the phone just rings out. I feel the tears of frustration pricking at my eyes as I call Oliver’s number.
   “Gillian?”
   “Oliver”—my voice trembles—“I’ve lost Sam. I told him Lorna was sick; he was upset. I guess I looked away for a minute. I don’t know where he went.”
   There’s a beat, and Oliver speaks in his calm, steady voice.
   “Okay. Remember, Gillian, Sam is a smart kid. He’s ten years old. He has a phone with GPS. He knows the name of the hotel. Let’s remember that.” Then he takes a breath. “Where are you right now?”

I scan the street for signs, read him the name of the intersection.

“I’m not sure if I’m going the right way,” I say. “I thought I was but I don’t know.”

“I’m getting in a cab right now,” Oliver says. He swallows. “He’ll be fine, Gillian. Seriously, he’ll be fine.”
   But it’s my fault, I think. I’m to blame.
   “You’re not to blame,” Oliver says, as though he can hear me. “And this is all going to be fine.”
   My phone beeps with an incoming call.
   “I’ve got to go,” I say. It’s Abigail. I hang up on Oliver, feeling the blood drain from my face. I ask the universe for forgiveness before I make this day into every mother’s nightmare, and pick up the phone.
   “Sam ran off,” I say. “And I can’t find him.”

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

I tried to stay calm for Abigail so that she would, but I could hear in her voice that she was just inches from losing every last shred of composure. I remind myself that Oliver is right: Sam is a responsible, resourceful ten-year-old. He has a phone, and he’s only a few minutes from home. But it’s not like that was Abigail’s view of the matter.