Wylie flipped the pancakes and set the butter, syrup, and a bowl of grapes on the kitchen table.
“Do you like pancakes?” she asked as the boy sidled back into the room.
Wylie set a pancake on a plate and handed it to him. “You sit right on down and get started. I’ll join you in a second.”
Wylie brought a plateful of pancakes and the skillet of scrambled eggs to the table, scooped some onto the boy’s plate, and then added some to her own. She sat across from him at the round, oak table. “Go ahead and eat,” she urged, “you don’t have to wait for me.” The boy stared uncertainly up at her.
“Do you want me to cut your food for you?” Wylie asked, but the boy pulled his plate close and picked up the pancake with his fingers.
She watched as the boy dragged it through a puddle of syrup, brought it tentatively to his lips, and took an experimental lick. Deciding that it was okay, the boy ate the rest of the pancake and then started in on the second one that Wylie slid onto his plate. He ate without pause, barely taking time to chew and swallow.
“Slow down,” Wylie said. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”
The boy bent over his plate to sniff at the scrambled eggs and then wrinkled his nose.
“That’s okay,” Wylie assured him. “You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to.”
The boy looked longingly toward the door.
“Remember the storm?” Wylie asked. “It’s not safe to go outside right now. The roads are very bad.” The boy shifted in his chair as if ready to bolt.
Wylie didn’t want to panic the child, but she didn’t want to lie to him any more than she already had. “I promise I’m going to do my best to get you home,” she said. “It can’t snow forever.” The boy seemed to think about this as a few tears escaped and slid down his cheeks.
“Don’t cry,” Wylie said in alarm. “How about we play a game?” Wylie asked, hoping to distract him.
The boy looked at her suspiciously.
“It’s called First You, Then Me,” Wylie said, standing up from the table. She picked up her plate and carried it to the sink. “First, you ask me a question, and then I ask you one. Do you want to start? All you do is ask me a question like what my favorite things are, and I answer it.”
Wylie rinsed the plates and placed them in the dishwasher. “Okay, then. I’ll start,” Wylie said when the boy didn’t answer.
Wylie looked up at the ceiling and tapped her chin as if deep in thought. She wanted to come up with an easy question. One that wouldn’t be too personal. “What’s your favorite color?” Wylie asked. No answer.
Wylie decided to try a different tack. “Well, Wylie,” Wylie said with a childish lilt to her voice. “My favorite color is blue. How about you?”
Wylie returned to her regular voice. “Now isn’t that a coincidence? My favorite color is blue too.”
Wylie looked at the boy for some kind of reaction but he just stared back at her blankly. Maybe he didn’t speak English, or maybe there was a physical reason he couldn’t talk. Or he was just scared shitless.
Wylie sighed. “Well, I can tell you about me, I guess. You’ve met Tas. Do you have a dog?” Wylie paused for just a moment, not expecting an answer, and then launched into her next question.
“My favorite TV show is Dateline. What’s yours,” Wylie asked as she refilled the boy’s glass with milk.
The boy snatched a grape from the bowl and took an experimental nibble. Had he never eaten a grape either? Wylie wondered.
The boy wouldn’t even look at her.
Wylie threw up her hands. The boy flinched at the movement. “I just wish you would tell me your name. That’s it, your name. Why is that so hard?” she asked.
The boy considered this and looked as if he might speak but instead clamped his mouth shut.
More alarms began to go off in Wylie’s head. She knew that she gave the boy very little reason to trust her, but she had saved him from freezing to death. What could be so bad that he couldn’t even utter his name or his parents’ names? What kinds of secrets was this child keeping and why?
17
August 2000
“It’s Matthew Ellis,” Matthew called out with a shaky voice.
“We got a call about a shooting,” Sheriff Butler said, lowering his weapon warily. At his side was Deputy Levi Robbins, who’d pulled down the lane just after the sheriff.
“That was me,” Matthew said. His next sentence was unintelligible, and the sheriff had to ask him to repeat it. “My daughter and her husband are dead,” Matthew repeated, his voice strangled with tears. “There’s blood everywhere,” he cried, looking at the sheriff desperately. “Everywhere.”