Or perhaps that was too cynical a way to look at it.

Perhaps he’d simply been kind. He had kind eyes above his Santa Claus beard. Ilse often joked to her mentor that he looked like Kris Kringle on an Atkins diet. He’d often joke back, with equally good cheer, that if she didn’t watch her lip, she’d end up with coal in her stocking.

Once, a few years ago, he’d even purchased her a whittled coal statue as a gift on Christmas, as a joke.

As the memories surfaced, swirling up, carrying on a current of fondness, warmth, quiet affection, she could feel some of the fear, the worry, the doubt, melting away like ice. She could feel the block in her stomach loosening a bit. Could feel the surfacing terror, pain dipping back beneath her subconscious again. At least for the moment.

Ilse hadn’t realized she’d been breathing so shallowly until she took a long, shuddering breath, filling her lungs fully for the first time since exiting her car.

“I—something happened, Don,” she said, her voice shaky. She could feel tears forming now.

Dr. Mitchell’s own face creased, a painful expression. Pain for no other reason than she was hurting. “Oh, Ilse. Dear, dear, dear… What’s the matter?”

He took her into an embrace first, hugging her quickly. He didn’t expect an answer to start. The hug came before the answer. With Dr. Mitchell, it often did. She could feel his fuzzy beard against her cheek, his thin biker’s body against her baggy sweatshirt. Her old mentor stepped back now, studying her, his eyes searching.

“Samantha,” Ilse said, feeling her voice hoarse. She coughed delicately and glanced off. Her eyes traced the nearest tree, flicking up to where she’d spotted the small nest. She couldn’t see it now.

She looked back at her old mentor, could feel the warmth emanating from him. Could still feel the warmth of his hug, like hot cocoa in mid-winter. She found her vision wasn’t blurry anymore, and her fingers weren’t trembling.

“Samantha went missing,” she said, softly. “I heard her on the phone. She called me. It sounded like she was attacked.”

Dr. Mitchell’s eyes widened. Just as quickly, though, he hid the surprise, hid the shock. He knew he needed to be strong for her. How many times had Ilse done the same thing for the people who needed her help? Hiding her own emotions, burying them to tend to someone else’s.

Dr. Mitchell shook his head, watching her carefully, gauging her reaction, gauging how he ought to respond for her sake. How he could best help her.

“I’m so, so sorry to hear that, Ilse. Samantha seemed like a nice lady. I shouldn’t have sent her your way. I never would have if I’d known.”

“It’s not your fault. It isn’t. Look, Don, I don’t know what to do.”

“Did you call the police?” he said, gently.

“Of course. Last night. They’re already looking for suspects.”

“So they haven’t found her?” He winced, not finishing the thought. “That’s a relief.”