He sniffled for a few seconds and then hurled himself back into my arms. He didn’t feel overheated—if anything, a little chilled, so perhaps I’d been overdoing the car air conditioning on his account. And judging from the Hansel and Gretel-style trail of Cheerios leading from the car to my feet, he couldn’t have eaten enough to give himself a stomach ache. Okay, he was genuinely upset—though I couldn’t tell why. I sat on the ground for perhaps twenty minutes, rocking him and murmuring whatever soothing words came to mind. Scout sat beside me, whining, wagging his tail, and intermittently licking whatever parts of Timmy he could reach.

About ten seconds after the crying finally subsided, Timmy popped his head up.

“Juice?” he asked. “Please?”

I took him back to the car and fished in the cooler for another sippy cup. He grabbed it with both hands and began gulping the contents with the sort of intensity you’d expect from a traveler who’d just crossed the Sahara. With him safely occupied, I set him down at my feet and glanced back at the house, wondering if it might be a good idea to see if I could pick one of the locks and snoop inside. No, probably not—I’d have to take Timmy with me, and even if I managed to snoop without leaving traces, I suspected I couldn’t keep him from doing so. Besides—

Never turn your back on a two-year-old. I heard Timmy smack his lips and sigh with satisfaction, and by the time I glanced down, he was vanishing into the shrubbery.

I spent what seemed like an half an hour playing tag with Timmy. Timmy and the dog, who seemed to think we’d invented a really superior game. The two of them were better suited to darting through small openings in the vines and shrubbery, and more uninhibited about crawling onto and into dangerous bits of rusting machinery.

I finally sat down in a clearing, out of breath and rapidly losing my temper. Maybe I was going about this the wrong way. Maybe I should go back to the car and find some bait. Some Cheerios, or maybe a candy bar. I had a few Snickers bars in the cooler, in case I needed a sudden jolt of energy. They weren’t on Timmy’s approved diet—in fact, candy bars of any kind were on the list of things he wasn’t supposed to have under any circumstances. But if Karen was going to be that persnickety about his diet, she should stick around to supervise it herself.

Just then Scout stuck his head through some shrubbery and pulled it back. I pretended not to notice.

“I’ll just have to go back without him,” I said.

Scout stuck his head out again, as if he thought I might be talking to him.

“No idea where he’s gone.”

The shrubbery behind the dog rustled as if he were wagging his tail. From somewhere to my left, I heard a slight giggle.