Then I start to think about things a mother shouldn’t have to think about. Those two young boys in the United Kingdom who’d lured the toddler away from the mall and killed him down by the railroad tracks. Then an incident much closer to home, where two teenagers had murdered a seven-year-old boy by shoving gravel down his throat—they hadn’t wanted him to tell his parents they’d stolen his bike. Or maybe the case of the six-year-old who’d lit the three-year-old on fire. Or the child who’d murdered his neighbor with a wrestling move, then stuffed her body under his mattress.

I make it down one side of the field, across the end, then work my way along the other, calling the boys’ names. The woods aren’t that deep. I can see the rooftops of neighboring homes through the boughs of green trees. The morning’s quiet; the sounds of traffic, muted. The boys should be able to hear me. Ronnie, at the very least, should call back.

Unless Evan won’t let him.

My pulse spikes, lights dancing in front of my eyes. I’m going to pass out. Can’t pass out. Have to think, have to think, have to think.

Evan’s not responding. Why isn’t he responding? Because he doesn’t want me to find him. Because he’s Evan and he’s playing some game and he doesn’t want to bother with me just yet. He wants to do what Evan wants to do, whatever that might be.

Incentive. That’s what it comes down to when you are a parent. Evan isn’t responding, because reducing my fear/panic/insanity isn’t enough incentive for him. He needs something better.

“Snack time,” I call out, as if this is an everyday morning. Becki and I just happen to both be racing up and down the soccer field without our children in sight. “Banana muffins and strawberries! Come on, who’s hungry?”

Evan loves banana muffins. It’s some of the only baking he lets me do.

Becki takes up the chant. We both work the wooded edges. “Snack time. Muffins and strawberries. Come on, boys, it’s getting late.”

I can tell by the rising pitch of Becki’s voice that as minute passes into minute, she’s starting to panic. It’s one thing to lose your toddler for thirty seconds. Quite another to still not be able to find him after a couple of minutes of hard searching.

It’s not working. Evan isn’t budging for banana muffins. I need something better.

I return to Becki, turning her so our backs are to the neighboring woods. “Evan sometimes plays this game,” I begin, wondering if my voice sounds as thin and strained to her as it does to me. “He hides and won’t come out unless there’s good reason.”

“What?” she says, clearly preoccupied.