Clear blue reigned above us, with only one airplane toting a banner passing by in the ten minutes that followed. The sound of wind chimes carried from somewhere close. Sunshine bathed my face, a delicious contrast to the cool sand cascading down my legs. It was a relaxing summer day—until suddenly it wasn’t. Tiny stinging rocks woke me. They were attacking my cheeks, my eyes, my mouth. I tried to open my eyes, but the constant stream of sand made it impossible. I moved to shield my face from the sand, but my arms were pinned. Panicked, I screamed and kicked, fueled by sudden terror, and succeeded in rolling onto my stomach. I threw off a mountain of silt and a driftwood log. Angela stood over me with a soda can and plastic pail filled with sand. Horror drew her face long. “I’m so sorry, Moon. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry,” she repeated, over and over again, gulping sobs stifling her words until she lay down beside me. I stayed on my hands and knees and threw up a mouthful of sand. Apart from the thousands of grains of beach stuck in my hair and my irritated eyes, I was okay. Okay but confused. Scared, when I remembered Angela had been angry with me that morning for playing with her doll, the designer one I loved. Her retribution, delivered. We ended our visit to the beach earlier than usual that day, but not before she swore up and down she would never do anything to hurt me. That I was her best friend and the most important person in the world to her. Even as our mother separated me from Angela for days afterward, until it was safe to play together again.

Early morning turns into late afternoon with the ease of a sick day at home—agonizingly slow then quick, to where I look up and three hours have passed. The memory of body odor returns cyclically, every so often. Panic siphons the air from my lungs, and I replay the event from start to finish in my head: attempted kidnapping in broad daylight in the middle of the crowded Champs-Élysées; I escaped. Deep breath. Through the nose. Breathe.

I sat in bed for a good hour when I got back, debating going to Valentin right then and there, imagining the hypothetical conversation. Miss Darby, are you sure? Miss Darby, what did he look like? Where were you coming from? What were you doing at Wood’s? Wrapping my head around all the different turns this conversation could take left me feeling as unglued as when I got in the cab. If the fake cop somehow actually does work for the police, I’ll have to bob and weave in the moment. But cowering in fear is not how the next three days go. They can’t.

Someone has been following me. Someone is growing both impatient and bold.