Ben York sat with his parents and Percy along the railing at middle of the back of the pavilion, waiting and watching the men dressed as police officers, mostly focusing on the crazy one that had nearly executed one of their neighbors. The initial shock and adrenaline surge from the violence and death had worn off, and exhaustion was starting to set in, even with the heightened sense of terror. Fortunately for the group of hostages and Percy, the temperature had only fallen to the low fifties, although it felt cooler with the endless breeze and gusting winds. They all knew the cold front was coming, but Ben also knew that this entire horrific ordeal would be over before morning. It had to be.

Once morning arrived, with it came a sense of normalcy: early grocery deliveries, parents picking up friends’ kids for sports, and even landscaping services—all of the Americana you’d expect on a Saturday morning in suburbia. And once that inevitability was a reality, the jig was up, as Ben’s dad would’ve said. He’d been hearing it all his life, but he didn’t know where his father had picked up the saying, although he was certain it wasn’t from Elizabethan times. Parents always tried to sound cool, even when they didn’t.

Percy let out a whimper, the stress and tension affecting the sensitive dog. “It’s okay, boy. This will all be over, and then we’ll have you back home. I promise.” He leaned in and placed his head on top of the dog’s as if telepathically transferring some larger cosmic knowledge. “I love you, Percy.”

Ben felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be fine,” he heard Charlotte York say, and he turned to face his parents. He knew she was right, but he wasn’t worried about them, even though they were the ones held at gunpoint. He was worried about Sam, about where she was, praying that she’d remained hidden and out of danger. His stomach was knotted, and he felt helpless, just as he’d felt moments after Mr. Flores had been shot and killed by the man Ben had fought, a man that was now dead too, shot by an unseen force in the woods.

“I know. I’m just worried about Sam. That’s all,” he replied, continuing to scratch Percy behind the ears.

“Son, she’s a strong-willed young lady, and I have no doubt she’s fine, wherever she is,” David York said. He was a relatively fit man at the age of fifty-five, which was surprising, considering he was a highly paid, brilliant, and overworked commercial lawyer for a firm in DC. “All that matters is that she’s not here.”