Buried in the Casa Madre file is a manifest of prisoners, and after a few seconds I find Yoselin Asturias and her location—foster care in North Dakota. Jesus, these people. Still, I breathe a sigh of relief. Yoselin could have vanished into the ether, but here was proof of where she had been sent just a few weeks ago, according to the dates in the file. Using a throwaway cell phone, I set up a personal hotspot, then email a copy of the file to the Asturias family using a Gmail account I promptly delete afterward.

What I did to Bobby Bonaroo was outright bonkers and involved breaking at least half a dozen federal laws. And it worked. I’ve found lots of things are a matter of willpower—if you want to do something badly enough, and you have the time and the capability to do it, then all that’s left is your resolve. Most people balk at certain predictable limits. I tend to vault straight over them, and so some people call me crazy. I’m a mess, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not a psychopath. Psychopaths don’t have to worry about bothersome things like a conscience or guilt. I’ll admit there have been times in my life when I’ve wondered whether it would be easier to be one of those lost souls who don’t share a sense of empathy with the rest of the human race. But while I may be crazy—have even been hospitalized—I’m smart enough to realize that I’m better off having emotional connections, however stunted or odd, with other people. So I’m more of a high-functioning sociopath. I’ve just decided to put that part of me to good use. I’m good at finding people—a skill I honed by looking for, and finding, the man who killed my parents, although he very nearly killed me first—and I’m often willing to do things most people won’t do, or just can’t. I’ve chosen to side with the better angel of my nature, to join Gryffindor over Slytherin, to be a white hat in a dark world. Or whatever other stupid metaphor you want to use.