“You looking for something to use for school? Entertainment? Graphic design?” Overeager Girl circles around, trying to reestablish eye contact. I pretend I can’t hear her.

I duck beneath my new wool hat and bury my chin into the folds of my scarf. I take a circuitous path away from the laptops in the front of the store toward the desktops shoved to the back corner like an unwanted afterthought.

Despite it being Friday, I’d hoped the store would be crowded, so I could come in, get what I needed, and leave without anyone bothering me. My fallback is to play the icy, rude girl, so that anyone tempted to solicit me leaves me alone—at least long enough to look up a few things and get out before I’m noticed.

Overeager Girl doesn’t follow me. I hear her attack her next victim with the same horrid line she used on me. Same cheery intonation. “What brings you in today?”

I scan the store, avoiding eye contact. Sales associates harp on that kind of thing as an invitation to chat. Luckily, every associate is preoccupied, dishing out rehearsed lines and cheesy smiles to customers about devices more current and expensive than the desktops in front of me.

I loosen my scarf. My hands hover over the keyboard, hesitant at first. One more glance to ensure no one is coming, and I fire up the Internet.

I don’t know whether Ryan has found anyone to come forward, but he needs as many names of kids forced to participate as he can get. The more people willing to talk, the safer they’ll all be. Even though I’m trying not to speculate what the mayor has planned for the gala next week, I have to do this now. Just in case.

Knowing time is limited, I focus on the men in the photo that Adam and I found in the library. Harry Hewitt and Daniel London both have kids in high school. Edward Cunnings had a son, who committed suicide. That leaves four other men, all affiliated with the Lakefront Project.

I type Bill Morrell and hit enter. His face pops up on the screen, taking me back to the anguish, confusion, and resentment I felt after my dad died.

A man screams. It’s terror-ridden, and a shudder ripples through my body. I clench my gut and try to ground myself. But my nerves are too heightened, making any kind of self-monitoring or mindfulness unreliable. Another scream slices through the night, coming from just outside the store. I watch the store’s patrons. None of them so much as flinch. I inhale slowly, dismissing the sounds and my body’s visceral response to them. With my heart jackhammering in my chest, I push past it, unsure whether the cries in my head were Dopney’s or my dad’s. Either way, they aren’t real.