The stairs down to the basement are rickety at best and Thomas decides the search for a screwdriver isn’t worth a second broken hip in the family. Instead he limps across the kitchen and pulls open the wide, deep cabinet drawer that holds an olio of odds and ends.

His fingers rummage past a crescent wrench, a few wayward screws, a large whisk, tongs and ladles. He finally locates a screwdriver and turns to make the trek back up the stairs to Jordyn’s room but swivels back to the drawer. He stares down at the jumble. Some items are missing, though he can’t quite put his finger on what. He pushes the drawer closed and, at a much slower speed, begins the journey back upstairs.

By the time Thomas reaches the top of the steps, perspiration stains have bloomed beneath his armpits and at his neckline. His hand slick with sweat loses his grip on the screwdriver and it tumbles down the stairs, landing on the hardwood floor with a clatter.

Frustration erupts in his chest and it’s enough to propel him forward. “Jordyn Ann Petit,” he hollers, his fist pounding against the wooden door frame, “you open this door right this minute!”

The door slowly opens and Thomas expects to see a stone-faced, defiant Jordyn standing in front of him. Instead his granddaughter wears an expression of intense fear.

My God, Thomas thinks, she’s terrified of me. Thomas is immediately contrite, ready to apologize. He never, ever wants Jordyn to be afraid of him. A healthy amount of respect would be nice, but never fear.

“Grandpa,” Jordyn says, her face crumpling as she throws herself against Thomas, her arms barely reaching around his wide waist. Thomas stands there momentarily dumbfounded, arms extended out to his sides as if unexpectedly struck by a wave of cold water.

“What is it?” Thomas asks, finally lowering his arms and returning Jordyn’s fierce embrace. “What’s the matter?” Thomas is expecting Jordyn to say that she’s sorry for going out in the middle of the night without permission, to express remorse for saying that she didn’t want to go and to want to check on how Violet and Cora were doing, to apologize for locking herself away in her room for hours.

Jordyn weeps into his neck. This isn’t a spat-with-friends, sorry-for-being-naughty kind of cry. These are bone-deep sorrow-filled cries.

“No one was supposed to get hurt, Grandpa. It was all just a stupid game,” she croaks.

It takes a moment for Jordyn’s words to register with Thomas but still they make little sense. What kind of game would lead to two girls being hospitalized? He thinks of Jordyn’s earlier confession that they had taken some beer from the bar. Had alcohol played a role? The train yard was filled with old junk; maybe after drinking the girls had been horsing around.