Then Greenway: “Must belong to one of the guys working on the site. Fell out of his pocket or something.”

Yes, I thought. Keep thinking that way. It’s just a cell phone. Not my cell phone.

“Prob’ly his mom calling to see why he isn’t home yet,” Rick cracked.

Greenway: “I’ll take it back to the office, whoever belongs to it can claim it there. Maybe we should leave a note or something.”

I heard the click of a ballpoint pen. “I’ll leave a note right on this stud here,” Rick said. “‘Lost a phone? Check at office.’ That should do it.”

“There’s two ‘f’s in ‘office,’” Greenway said.

Rick said nothing. I heard them step off the plywood, head back toward their cars. I felt it was safe enough to peek above the top of the drywall. They were huddled together by Carpington’s Caddy, saying a few last words before they went their separate ways. And then, once again, the sound of a cell phone.

“I think it’s mine,” Greenway said. He reached into his jacket, opened a small flap, said, “Hello?”

But there was another ring.

“Not mine,” said Greenway. Carpington reached into his own jacket, looked at his phone, shook his head.

Now Greenway reached down into his pants pocket, where evidently he had slipped my phone. As he pulled it out, the ringing became louder. He pressed a button.

“Yeah?”

I could hear my heart pounding in my chest.

“Who?”

The pounding got a little louder.

“No, I’m afraid this isn’t Zack Walker. He’s not available at the moment. Who’s calling? Uh-huh. Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to try again later.” He ended the call, and as he slipped the phone back into his pants, all eyes were focused again on the house.

I ran.

I’d been out here so long, my eyes were well adjusted to the night light. I weaved my way through a couple of uncompleted walls and leapt out of the house on the back side. Somewhere behind me, I heard Rick shout, “I see him!”

As I’d learned on my way to my hiding spot, a construction site is not the ideal place to conduct a hundred-yard dash. The various stacks of building materials are bad enough, but the real problem is the ground surface. Sod is months away. I was dashing over mounds of dirt, rocks, and pebbles, a lunar landscape. It hadn’t rained in a week or more, so the deep tracks left by trucks and digging equipment had hardened, creating a crisscross network of ruts of varying depths. Every time a foot landed, it hit the ground at a different angle, sending jolts of pain to my ankles and knees.