He began to weep so violently that he had trouble breathing.

Despite her not wanting to stop, Lucy pulled over to the side, unfastened her seat belt, and slid across the seat, taking him in her arms, stroking his hair, kissing the top of his head while he wept and shuddered against her. “Shhh, there, there, hon, it’s all right, it’s okay, it wasn’t your fault, it was an accident, nobody blames you, he won’t get you, Mr. Hands won’t get you, I promise, nothing’s gonna hurt you, I swear it...”

She held on tighter. It felt good to be holding a child in her arms again, to be needed by a child, to feel a child’s fragility and know that she could protect it, could make things better, could take away the fear—and she would protect him, at all costs.

You will not harm him, she thought toward the night, hoping Mr. Hands heard her.

You won’t. Under. No. Circumstances.

When his sobs finally subsided, she gave him a few Kleenex to wipe his nose and eyes, kissed his head, then touched his cheek and said, “Hey, I’ve got some ice-cream sandwiches in one of the coolers in the back seat. You want one?”

“Yes, please.”

She dug one out and gave it to him, then put her seatbelt back on and drove back onto the freeway.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Thompson.”

“You’re quite welcome, Randy. And you can call me Lucy.”

He almost laughed.

“What?” said Lucy. “What is it? C’mon, you—what’s so funny?”

“You’re the first grownup who ever told me I could do that.”

“Call them by their first name?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s because I’m your friend.”

“Really?” It was a prayer.

“Really. You can count on that—but you have to trust me, Randy, all right?”

“...’kay,” he said around a mouthful of the sandwich. Then: “You gonna take me back home later?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I like it there.” Then: “You’re a nice lady.”

Lucy smiled. “I like you, too.”

* * *

For a while, Randy played with the hand-held Star Wars video game Lucy had bought earlier that day, but every time it seemed that he was enjoying himself, the ghost of his little sister crossed his face and he looked away, sniffling, the game lying bright and blinking and unused on his lap.

Eventually, around eleven-forty-five p.m., he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Stopping for gas a few minutes later, Lucy covered him with a blanket and managed to raise his head enough to slip a small pillow underneath it.

Illuminated only by the glow of the dashboard’s lights, he looked even smaller and more vulnerable.

Watching him now, Lucy thought of a passage from Shakespeare that she’d come across in her college days, one that returned to her time and again in the weeks and months after Sarah’s disappearance:

Grief fills up the room of my absent child,

Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,

Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,