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cell. I didn’t imagine it.”
    “I booked a morning flight to Florida, six forty-five, out of Newark. I wanted to get back tonight, but it’s too late.” True.
    When he said, “Okay, you got nothing that would interest us or the feds. But what about Interpol?” I answered, “Believe me, if I knew where the kid was you wouldn’t have to ask.”
    After several seconds, Esterline said, “That’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?”
    When he glanced at me, I was looking out the passenger window.
    “Then let’s leave it like this: If your memory improves, you call me. Not those assholes from the bureau. And not those brownnose detectives. Mostly, they’re a good bunch. But not those two. Okay?”
    I was watching storefronts blur past—delicatessens, clothing stores, the marquee of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel two blocks ahead—as I replied, “I owe you, Marv. I appreciate what you did for me tonight.”
    He laughed—a cynical, wise-guy laugh—done with it. “Okay, we’ll see. At least explain how you came up with the shirt gambit. Or are you gonna play dumb about that, too?”
    I said, “I wasn’t positive it would work.”
    “But it did work. How’d you think of it, that’s what I’m asking. You wrapped a shirt around each hand like a glove, then smacked both hands down hard on the ice. I saw you.”
    I said, “After clearing away the snow.”
    “Yeah, brushed it away and splashed some water. Only maybe that was accidental.”
    “It wasn’t,” I said.
    “Then smacked your hands down flat on the ice. After five, ten seconds, you hollered at the Latin guy, ‘Now!’ I heard that clear enough. He used your shoulder to boost himself up. You pulled yourself out, no problem. Then the two of you belly-crawled to shore.”
    “That was the scariest part,” I said, “those last few yards.”
    “So what was the deal, using the shirts? They gave you a better grip because your hands were warmer?”
    I said, “Just the opposite. The temperature’s in the twenties, our shirts were soaked. That’s what gave me the idea. When you were a kid, did you ever stick your tongue on a Popsicle?”
    Esterline said, “A couple times every winter, we get a call, some kid’s tongue is stuck to a pole or something.”
    “That’s the concept,” I said.
    After a few seconds, he smiled. “I’ll be goddamned. I get it. The shirts froze to the ice, huh? Your arms were like the two sticks.”
    “Sort of,” I told him.
    For the next block, I followed that tangent, explaining the tensile strength of water molecules as they bonded, crystallizing as ice. But what I was thinking about was the kid, in his rodeo clothes, and his smart-assed reply when I ordered him back into the limo.
    I wished him well, and hoped he really was as tough as he talked. Young William Chaser would have to be a survivor to endure the nightmare he was living—if he was still alive.

4
    C urled in a dark space he knew was the trunk of a car, Will Chaser had vomited and nearly messed his jeans, he was so scared at first. Now, though, he was numb enough to do some thinking.
    Long as I live, I’ll never enter another essay contest, doesn’t matter the prize. I shoulda written the goddamn thing myself.
    Which he hadn’t. Not a word. Was amazed, in fact, the contest people never doubted.
    “We are pleased to recognize a young Indigenous American who comprehends the complexities of international relationships . . .”
    A line from the official letter of congratulations. Using “Indigenous” instead of “Native,” which was irritating, because Will had to go looking for a dictionary. Then using “comprehends,” like the judges were surprised to discover a Skin who wasn’t too damn stupid.
    “You don’t have to be a genius not to be stupid.” A line from his so-called foster granddad, Old Man Bull Guttersen.
    As a kid on the Rez, Will had done some dumb things. He’d been kicked out of three schools and arrested twice. Math was weak, his spelling