I caught the eye of another father, a man of my own age, saw in him my own confusion and rage. These men walk easily by us, arms cuffed, uniforms torn. When our children . . .

What have they done with our children?

Elsa was muttering something. I could feel her stiff staccato words, could hear the s sounds, and the k’s and the t’s. I did not look at her—could not look at her—must not let her see my fear.

The pistol-carrying officers led the men up the rise to two waiting police cars. The policewomen in the stern tracked the path of the men with their rifles, while the officers on the slipway scanned the crowd. I looked around. Still that dread silence. Still the faces, empty of emotion, though every parent there was thinking the same thought: Please. Our children. What have you done with our children?

The machine-gun-carrying officers moved away to join their colleagues at the cars. Doors opened. The officers separated the suspects, one into each car. The men sat calmly in the backseats, facing forward; they offered no resistance. An armed officer got in beside each man, and another into the passenger seat.

Doors closed, headlights lit, engines started. The cars stayed where they were.

In my pocket my phone vibrated. I held it in front of me like some alien thing.

Dan.

I stepped carefully up the slipway and away from the crowd. I brought the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” said my brother’s voice, “just wondering . . .”

“Nothing yet.” My own voice sounded jarring, even at a hoarse whisper, as if I might cry.

A thin man in a black suit was quietly collecting the forms. Something familiar about him.

“Sorry, Dan. I just . . .” I turned away from the man.

“Listen, Cal, whatever you need, you tell me, okay?” I could hear the catch in my brother’s voice, though he did what he could to disguise it. The knowledge that things were bad, that Licia most probably wasn’t . . .

I couldn’t allow myself the thought, so I said, “We’re good. We’re really looking forward to this whole thing being over.”

“Everyone here is sending love, Cal. Daisy wanted you to know she’s thinking of you. Oh, but Lyndon’s at soccer practice, so he doesn’t yet know.”

“Love back,” I said, and ended the call.

The thin man in the suit approached me, hair mussed, shoes covered in dust. I looked down at the sheet of paper in my hand. I held it out to him, began to turn toward Elsa.

“Cal.” I felt his hand on my shoulder, saw the concern in his eye.

“Oh my God, Edvard. Thought you were at police headquarters. Jo said . . .”

“We’re all doing everything we can,” said Edvard. “But it’s a mess. I’m really sorry.”

“What do you mean?”