What a silly thing to ask, Wylie thought to herself. Of course, the boy had been scared. He was just in a terrible car accident and had wandered alone through the storm and nearly froze to death. The boy knew what it was like to be scared. To be terrified.
Wylie waited. The boy’s frantic breaths eased. Minutes passed. Wylie felt a gentle tug on her pant leg like a tiny sunfish pulling on a night crawler. She bent over, head between her legs so that she could peer beneath the bed. The boy’s tearstained face looked back at her. “Will you come out?” Wylie asked.
The boy eased himself out from beneath the bed and got to his feet. Though he didn’t speak, Wylie knew what questions he wanted to be answered.
“I found the truck,” Wylie said carefully. “No one else.” A blatant lie, but why add to his anxiety? The boy’s shoulders sagged with disappointment. “Was your mom in the truck with you? Or someone else?” she asked. “Someone you cared about?” The boy didn’t respond.
Wylie reached for the boy’s hands. His skin was cold, and the bones beneath felt like they could break within her grasp. He pulled away at her touch as if burned.
“Once the storm passes, I’ll look more,” Wylie promised. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the dirty white scrap of fabric she found near the wrecked truck. “I found this. Does it belong to you?” Wylie asked.
The boy’s eyes lit up and he smiled before reaching out his hand tentatively. Wylie handed the piece of cloth to him and he pressed it to his cheek.
Why hadn’t the woman waited for Wylie to come back for her? Where could she have possibly gone? Wylie couldn’t help thinking that maybe she was into some bad business and was running away. Her mind raced with possibilities: She was running from the law or from an abusive husband. Maybe it was as simple as the woman being disoriented from the accident and she wandered off into the storm.
They came back down the stairs and Wylie fed another stick of wood into the fireplace. The boy had a funny way of turning his body to the side and watching what was going on around him out of the corner of his eye as if trying not to be noticed. Wylie straightened the blankets on the sofa, Tas jumped up, turned around three times, and settled into one corner. This time she didn’t reprimand him.
Wylie went to the kitchen to get the boy a glass of water. He had to be hungry too. She dug through the cupboards and found a box of Cheerios and filled a bowl. She took the dry cereal and the glass and found the boy curled up next to Tas on the sofa, thumb in his mouth.
“You should drink something,” Wylie said, holding the glass of water toward him, but tight-lipped, he turned his head away. “Okay,” Wylie said, setting the glass and bowl of cereal on the coffee table. “Help yourself when you’re ready.”
The boy’s eyes grew heavy, and soon his breathing matched Tas’s; they were asleep.
Wylie checked her watch. How could it be only midnight?
Outside, the storm had worked itself into a frenzy. The wind bayed angrily, and the snow scoured the windows. Wylie kept looking outside, hoping to see the woman coming toward the house, but all she could see were froths of white. After a while, she gave up. The woman either found help on the snowed-in road, which was unlikely, or she succumbed to the weather.
Wylie retrieved her manuscript and folder filled with crime scene photos from upstairs and considered pouring herself a glass of wine but settled on coffee. She tried to read but kept looking at the sleeping form nestled on the sofa. Who was he? Someone else had to be out there looking for him.
Periodically, she checked the landline but was met with the same silence. For the first time in a long time, she wanted to talk to someone.
Not to just anyone. Wylie wanted to talk to her son. She wanted to apologize for just taking off. She had been so frustrated with him, so tired of the arguments, of Seth pitting her ex-husband against her. And when he took off that night and didn’t come home—that was pure torture. She didn’t know where Seth was, who he was with, didn’t know if he was alive or dead.
Wylie had taken the easy way out as a parent. Seth’s words had hurt her so much. He hated her, wanted to go live with his father. Wounded, she used finishing her book as an excuse, came to this sad, lonely place. Wylie left her son and only God knew what it would take to mend their relationship.
At that moment, she would have been content to talk to Seth about school and his friends, but that was impossible. Now Wylie was the lone caretaker of another child—one she was ill-equipped to tend to.