While Maggie is answering the first three texts, a fourth one comes in. Her mother, asking her again to please report to the store. This text Maggie ignores again because she is still angry with her mother: for the grounding, for probing the sore spot that Maggie’s humiliation in front of Olivia and Hugo has left on her soul. Possibly her mother wants to make sure Maggie is safe, but it’s more likely that she wants to put Maggie to work, like some sort of child laborer.

Maggie wonders if Pickles, who is terrified of storms, has taken up her spot in the center of the bathtub—she’s better than a barometer at responding to changes in weather. She almost feels bad enough for Pickles to go home, but an angry part of her wants her mother to sweat it out a little longer. She wonders, if she went home, if her mother would be there making her coconut-oil stovetop popcorn, which is miles better than the microwaved crap that Riley’s mother makes. By then Maggie realizes that she’s actually missed hanging out with her mother this summer.

Lately Maggie has been considering packing up all of her T-shirts and replacing them with some plainer but stylish tops from American Eagle and Hollister. Once she has decided to forgive her mother all the way, maybe they can take a trip to the mainland for some shopping before the beginning of the school year, which, hard to believe, is now just less than three weeks away. This summer has been the fastest of Maggie’s life.

“Excuse me!”

Maggie looks up. A very pretty blond woman is heading toward her at a trot, waving her arms frantically. “Excuse me!” she calls. “Excuse me! Have you seen a little boy with a red shirt? Four years old, dark hair?”

“No,” says Maggie, looking around. “No, I haven’t.”

“I was on the phone for just a minute,” the woman says. “Not even a minute, for a second. And he was gone . . .”

The woman’s phone rings. She answers it. “Not now, Glen,” she says sharply. She listens for half a second and barks, “Now you want to talk about it? I can’t. I’m in the middle of an emergency. I can’t find Max. What? Well, yes, again, but the first time wasn’t my . . . Oh, never mind! I have to go.” She ends the call and emits a little puff of anger or frustration. She scans the horizon frantically.

Maggie says, “I can help you look for him.” When she was little, her mother taught her never to help a strange man who told you he’d lost his dog, because he might actually be trying to kidnap you. This woman, besides being female, is clearly legitimately distressed—most likely not a kidnapper. Also, she is even skinnier than Maggie, and Maggie figures she can take her physically if necessary.

The woman says, “I wonder if he wandered off down the road . . . though I don’t think he would do that . . .”