Counting by 7s(28)

“She’s missing. You could be helpful.”

There might even have been bells somewhere far away now ringing.

Dell found his voice rising two octaves.

“I could?”



Dell left work, driving ten blocks out of his way to pass the Chance house, where several dozen bouquets of flowers from neighbors and coworkers lay wilted from the heat on the front steps.

Someone had made a homemade banner that said: JIMMY AND ROBERTA R.I.P.

But the evening wind from the night before must have gotten hold of the sign, because now it was on the neighbor’s dry front lawn.

A group of burned-low votive candles sat on the walkway and a half-dozen empty beer bottles were on their sides nearby.

It looked, Dell thought, like the remains of a bad party.



Willow Chance, according to the assembled authorities—was he part of them now? It looked like it!—had no viable relatives.

But now the kid was missing.

They had sent a patrol car to Happy Polish and she wasn’t there.

The woman in charge was playing a version of the blame game, accusing all kinds of people of being at fault.

He knew that game well, having been a finger-pointer since early childhood.

When in doubt, pout. Or falsely accuse someone.

But one thing in the muddle of confusion was clear: He was being asked to help.

He could sense his power in the room. It was a new feeling and it made him literally dizzy.

What if he could actually find the missing kid?

They were focusing on “foul play.” Abductors who might have been caught on video cameras or other means of surveillance.

But Dell knew in his heart that the twelve-year-old hadn’t met with any kind of foul play.

It was more likely that she was assisting a doctor performing open-heart surgery than that some creep had snatched her.

But he didn’t show his hand.

And so while Lenore huddled with other employees filing police reports and requesting interviews with hospital workers, Dell excused himself and accessed the school district website.

He then drove straight to Mai’s high school.





Chapter 26





I would live here at Beale Memorial Library, if it were any kind of viable option.

But it’s not like the classic book where the two kids run away from home and go to hide in a museum in New York City.

I know that I need a bed, and I like to take frequent baths and showers. Brushing my teeth is very important and not just because of the proven connection between poor oral hygiene and heart attacks.

But as I walk through the double doors of this place I do wish that it were possible. Because: books = comfort

To me anyway.

And comfort is a thing of the past.



I have trouble concentrating, but I still attempt to search for reading material involving losing a parent.

I find no literature or empirical data directed to a middle schooler.

If I were a publisher, I would immediately initiate a series of books for kids who have to cope with the death of their mother or father.

And I would include an entire edition for those who have lost both of their parents at the same time.

But despite my own situation, I do not believe that there is a large enough need for useful information about losing two parents twice.



I find an abandoned piece of paper on a desk, and after borrowing a pen at the front counter, I write:

There must be commonality in the experience of losing a parent that makes it worthwhile to share the particulars of the occurrence.

Especially for the young.

More literary output is needed from professionals in this area.

Please pass along this request to the appropriate people in the world of publishing.



I then fold the paper in half and slip it into the suggestion box, which is located next to the water fountain on the first floor.

And then I head up to the second level.



You are not allowed to sleep in the library.

I know this because I’ve seen the security guard wake people.

It’s a rule to keep the homeless from taking over the place.

I feel overwhelming empathy for that group right now.

We are one.

But I know this building.

And upstairs, in the far corner, are big molded chairs that look like doughnuts.

I crawl behind a red one.

I tuck my knees up against my chest and only my shoes stick out.

Camouflage is a form of crypsis, which means hiding.

The skin on my ankles is dark and I’m wearing a pair of brown work boots.

The carpeting in here is also shades of tan and chocolate. It is a pattern of swirls and dots, no doubt installed to camouflage any dirt.

I’m hiding in plain sight, which is often the best way to be concealed.

And in only seconds, I’m asleep.





Chapter 27





Dell went to the front office and made a request to speak with Mai Nguyen.

He showed his credentials and, though a few eyebrows were raised, only minutes later the scrappy fourteen-year-old was escorted out of class and stood in front of him.

Mai’s fiery eyes narrowed as they noticed Dell.

What was he doing here?

At the same time that she was mildly freaked out by the sight of the bearded counselor, she was also excited. She’d never been plucked out of class before.