My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

“I mean there’s blood all over his clothes and his face and his hands and—I don’t know if it’s his. He won’t let me touch him. He’s hiding under my bed. He’s shaking so hard I thought he was having a seizure.” She drew in a quick breath. “I called 911. I thought I should call you too.”

William was moving before she finished speaking, keys in one hand, wallet in the other, vision narrowing so fast the edges of the room dimmed. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know. He keeps saying, ‘Don’t let them find me.’ Oh God.” Her voice wavered. “What happened to your little boy?”

“I’m on my way.” William slammed the front door behind him and practically fell into the driver’s seat. “Do not let anyone take him. Do you understand me? Not my wife, not Sue, nobody. Keep him with you until I get there.”

“I will.”

He backed out so fast the tires shrieked.