The air is warm, just slightly humid but not uncomfortably so.

The night is newly-arrived, dark enough for the carny to rise from its depths like a phoenix.

One last hurrah before August bows to September, and summer fades away.

Carnival night.

Roll up, roll up, plunk down a quarter and try for a prize, take your sweetheart on a ride to the stars, lotsa room for the kiddies, yessir, no need to push, plenty of room, plenty of time, plenty of fun for everyone.

Roll up, roll up.

It’s carny time.

And then a woman screams, and a young man who’s been searching for her all day feels the silver thread around his throat tighten even more, and staggers toward the sound…

* * *

For the first hour of the search, Ronnie couldn’t get anywhere near Lucy, so joined in with the dozens of other people who’d volunteered to help the police distribute photocopied photos of Sarah and search the immediate grounds.

Ronnie nearly wept at the sight of Sarah’s face. Whatever was happening to her right now—or whatever might happen to her—she did not deserve it, no child ever did…but Sarah…Sarah was his fault, so she was now his responsibility.

“I love you, little Sarah,” he whispered to the picture, folding one of the photocopies and slipping it into his pocket.

By the time he was able to get near Lucy, he was so scared he couldn’t think straight. He ran up to her through the people milling around her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and—fighting back tears—asked if there’d been any word, if Sarah had been found yet, and when he was told by a nearby police officer to move it along and help with the search, her squeezed her shoulders, hoping she’d recognize him, but she didn’t, but that was all right, so he let go of her and ran toward the next group who was getting ready to search the areas immediately outside the festival grounds.

It was getting dark. So dark.

Ronnie helped them search until around midnight, and then word started spreading that the police and FBI had found something; no one was sure what, exactly, only that Mrs. Thompson was being escorted there by authorities.

The various groups of volunteers moved toward an area at the far end of the festival grounds where trees and other thick foliage were alive with dancing lights—flashlights.

Ronnie felt his stomach shrink to the size of a pebble when he saw Lucy Thompson stagger out of the trees, held upright by two police officers (both women), one supporting each of Lucy’s arms.

Lucy looked up at the groups of volunteers once, just long enough to try to say “Thank you” to all of them, but she couldn’t speak, the grief was too much, and Ronnie’s chest sort of imploded on him and everything went numb.

…if anything happens to his little sister, it’ll be because he wasn’t there to stop it, and it’ll all be your fault, Ronnie. He said that if that happens, you’ll be no different from the monsters who Hurt all the others…