I opened my mouth to speak, and in my back pocket I finally felt the gentle buzz of the phone.

In thirty seconds Marshall would be sprinting for the woods. If he was right, he’d find Robert, snug in his little car seat. He would go in, get him, and take him down to Trey. Trey would drive the baby out of reach of any gunfire, and Marshall would come up the stairs to get me. Armed, dangerous, ready. But first Marshall had to get out of her field of vision to the shelter of the trees, unseen.

I stood abruptly, staring at the spine of the carousel, behind her.

“Is someone else here?” I asked, my voice sharpening.

“No!” she said, alarmed. “Not unless you brung ’em.” She still held her tea, but her other hand moved under the afghan.

I hurried past her, past her bench, heading to the hollow center spine of the carousel. The boards sagged under my steps, creaking audibly. She turned to track me, now facing away from the lot.

“Be careful,” she said. “You could bring the rest of the roof down.”

I ignored her, going directly to the carousel house. The door panel had been ripped away. Inside I could see the remains of all its workings. It was a dank and musty space, cold and dark, like a cave inside a cave. Dead empty.

I looked back at her, shrugging. “I think it was settling. Or maybe a rat. Are there rats?”

She was still twisted around, peering into the darkness with me. I walked toward her so she couldn’t face the road without giving me her back. Her shoulders stiffened, and she set her tea down, turning as far as she could to watch me approach. Her free hand came up to rest on the bench’s back. It was old and gnarled, twisted by arthritis.

I reached out, very slowly, so as not to startle her, and I put my hand on top of hers. Her skin was cool and dry and papery. I felt such a strange tenderness for her as our hands touched. I could not explain it. But I saw in her eyes my same feelings reflected. My touch had opened up a well of small regret inside her. Maybe even mercy?

“I came to beg,” I said. I knelt, my hand still on hers.

I looked up into her face, and I could smell her now. Baby powder layered over the sour smell of a person who had not washed thoroughly in days. Marshall must be right. In the Dentons’ hidey-hole, she’d be using baby wipes or a basin of water warmed on the stove. Her hair, this close, was thick with grease.