Ruth sat me on the porch steps. She wiped my face down with her cold hands, emptied her shoes into the sunny dandelions. Then she slid down next to me. The truck was getting closer, closer. There was a catch in her chest every time she breathed in, like the start of a terrible sickness.

When my parents pulled into the driveway, Ruth took my hand and brought me to stand beside her. Mom got out of the truck first, her head tilted, already knowing something was wrong because she knew us, she knew our faces. I wanted to run to her, but Ruth’s grip was a vise.

“What’s happened?” Mom asked. She stood, one hand on the door of the truck, the other holding a woven basket with a few groceries as well as a hose.

“We can’t find Pim,” Ruth said. Her chin wobbled as she spoke. “He ran off, and we can’t find him.”

What was she doing? Why did she say that? She squeezed my hand tighter and tighter.

My father rounded the truck. What could he see in us? My father, who never missed a trick. “Pim!” he shouted into the field, elbows sharp at his sides. “Pim!”

“Have you looked for him?” Mom’s basket slanted. “Is he inside or outside?”

“He’s outside,” Ruth said.

“We were playing, and …” Ruth’s fingers clenched so hard around mine that it stopped me from saying anything else.

“He was running,” Ruth said. “We don’t know anything else.”

Dad walked briskly toward the field. “Pim!” I’d never heard his voice louder. He turned back to Ruth. “Why would he just take off?”

“I don’t know,” Ruth said.

“Ruth?” Mom’s brow creased. “Ruth Van Ness?” She turned to me. “Alexandra, where did you last see your brother?” Her eyes were granite. My whole body shook.

“The grain truck,” I whispered. Ruth’s knees buckled and then straightened again.

My mother let go of the basket she was holding, the groceries spilling onto the hard-baked ground.

Dad started running toward the back of the field, to the trucks. “Lottie, take the girls into the house,” he called as he ran.

Mom didn’t look at Ruth. Ruth tried to wrap herself around her, but it was like hugging a statue. “Come inside,” was all Mom said.

She held the screen door open for us, and we entered into the kitchen. Ruth and I stared up at our mother’s face, which was flat and expressionless. By the stove, Pim’s sneakers lay toe to heel, loose and abandoned. They were sky blue with race-car laces.

“He wasn’t wearing shoes?” Mom asked, looking at Ruth.