Tyra glanced at Sara’s window, so close. She wanted to run, but her feet were heavy. Like a dream, she thought; but the night was no dream. The big man said, “Hey, lady,” then hit her so fast and hard she went down on the concrete, a pain in her head as if something inside had broken. She tried to crawl, but hands caught her, and lifted her, and pushed her into the back seat of Sara’s car, down onto the floorboards. Even then, she could see the same window. It was Sara’s bedroom, the pretty one with pink walls and views into the park across the street. She stretched out a hand as someone outside said, “Follow me. Keep it slow. And here, you’ll need this.”

The car rocked as the big man climbed in, turned in his seat, and pointed a Polaroid camera. “Hold still.” There was a flash, a whirring sound. Still stretching for that far, high window, Tyra said her roommate’s name. “No talking. I don’t like talking.”

The little engine started, and he turned on the headlights. Tyra said Sara’s name again. She tried to scream it, but the big man twisted again, and found her throat with his hand. Tyra tried to fight, but he was strong and her fingers weak. They scraped an arm. Darkness flickered.

She opened her mouth, but had no air.

The darkness came again.

The darkness stayed.

10

The boy was not a bad boy. Anyone who knew him would agree. He was inquisitive but scattered, the kind of child who might forget he was in a baseball game, and wander out of right field to look for crawdads in the creek. That had happened once. Seventh grade. Last year. Granted, he did catch the largest crayfish anyone at school had ever seen—even the biology teacher agreed—but they still lost the game on a two-run pop fly straight down the right baseline. The coach had spoken to him about it afterward, explaining in his quiet, patient way that the team was a machine, that every boy had a job. The other boys were not wrong, he’d said, to be upset. Winning mattered. So did teamwork. Nods had followed; so had sincere apologies and promises it would never happen again. The coach had smiled in that same, soft way, then sent the boy out to his mother, thinking as so many did.

The boy was a good boy.

Just not very bright.