I say, “Wash up first. I’ve been working outside and you’ve been pedalling that bicycle with your hands.” She’s so smart. She lies on her tummy on the seat and her arms go a-whirring. Lauren doesn’t let anything get in her way.

“It’s easier with my hands,” she says.

I kiss her. “I know. And you go so fast, these days.”

We wash our hands at the kitchen sink, getting right under the nails with the brush.

Lauren is quiet as she eats. Yesterday was bad; she exhausted herself with anger. She goes back tomorrow and the prospect of her absence makes us both very gloomy. “We can do anything you like today,” I say without thinking.

Her attention sharpens. “I want to go camping.”

I feel the hot stroke of helplessness. We can’t go camping. Lauren knows that. Why does she always have to push me? Always tugging, nagging like one of those little dogs at the heels of a bull. No wonder I get mad.

But sorrow tugs at me too. It is unfair. So many kids get to go to the woods and make fires and camp and so on. It’s not even special for them. Maybe all the stuff with the Murderer has made me sad, maybe it’s because I’m tired of the house, too, but I say, “Sure. Let’s go camping. We leave at dusk.”

“Really? Truly, Dad?”

“Sure,” I say. “I said anything you like, right?”

Happiness shines out of her.

I put some supplies in a backpack. Flashlight, blanket, tarpaulin, energy bars, bottled water, toilet paper. Behind me I hear the dry sound of skirts rustling. Oh no. I squeeze my eyes closed really tight.

Her hand is like cold clay on the back of my neck. Don’t let anyone see who you are, Mommy says.

“I won’t,” I say. “I just want to give Lauren a little treat. Only this once, I swear. I’ll make sure she never wants to go again.”

You need to move them.

The sun falls slowly into the treeline. I watch through the western peephole that faces the forest. When the light is almost gone I shoulder the backpack and turn out the lights.

“Time to go,” I say. “Pens and crayons, please.”

She counts them into my hand one by one, and I put them away. They are all accounted for.

“Do you need a drink of water before we go? Bathroom? Last chance.”

She shakes her head. I can almost see the excitement coming off her like a series of little explosions.

“You have to let me carry you.” The pink bicycle will be useless on the forest floor.

She says, “Whatever.”