And so, when a body was retrieved from one of the flooded clay pits, the reaction within the community was of sorrow rather than surprise. And when the news came that the Nutter family had failed to identify the body, the general consensus was that the grief-stricken parents had been too deep in denial to face the truth. The Examiner ran the story the next day, flanked with a picture of Charlie—which made what happened later all the more remarkable.

What happened was, they found him. Where and when remained unclear. The papers seemed to suggest that it was on the fourth of January, but the time of day was unknown. Some said the boy had been found in a house somewhere in White City. Some said he’d come home of his own accord; some, that he had resisted. But whatever the truth of it, Nutter was safe. It was our Christmas miracle.

Back from the Dead! the headlines exclaimed; and for twenty-four hours, the excitement of finding the Nutter boy safe and sound was almost enough to make us forget that a boy—an as-yet-unidentified boy—had been pulled out of the clay pits. That boy too had been someone’s son. That boy too had lost his life. It wasn’t that we didn’t care about the unnamed boy in the pit; but when all was said and done—that boy wasn’t one of ours.

As for Charlie Nutter, I went to see him as soon as I could. Not right away—remember, I had a funeral to arrange—but a couple of days after his return. I think I felt responsible, as if there were something I could have done to prevent what happened. Not that I knew what had happened, of course: the grapevine was stubbornly silent on the subject of Charlie’s return, which meant that his homecoming had been tinged with a kind of awkwardness, a sigh of relief tempered by the vague dissatisfaction of a community preparing itself for the worst, only to find that its energies could have been better spent elsewhere.

Now, over a week from the day Charlie Nutter had disappeared, no one seemed to know where he had been, or what he had done during that time. The parents had made a statement, saying that Charlie was in good health and expressing their joy at his return. That was all anyone knew, and, much to the chagrin of the Malbry Examiner, neither Charlie nor his parents were prepared to divulge anything more. But I was the boy’s form tutor. I felt obscurely responsible. And so I went to see him at home, to offer what help and support I could.