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    They caught him! Damian Wright. He was in Texas. Hiding in a group shelter for Katrina refugees. All those little boys—he must have felt as if Katrina and the despair of a million people fleeing for their lives was a godsend, an unholy offering to his sick perversions.
    A national guardsman caught him with a boy. Felix Martinique. The body was still warm, Damian was covered in his blood, the news people said. They seemed glad of yet another catastrophe to lay at Katrina's feet.
    He confessed to the two boys in Vermont, the one in Tennessee, another in Oklahoma. But not to you or Josh. Why? I don't know this man—why is he trying to destroy what little life I have left? Why can't he give me any peace of mind?
    Why can't he give you back to me?
    Dr. Hedeger says he'll put me in a hospital if I don't start eating or sleeping. He's forbidden me to go on my hikes anymore and has Hal Waverly and the Colonel watching over me like I'm a prisoner in my own house. It's only because there was an accident at the Rockslide today—the Colonel started a grease fire while trying to sneak a fried bologna sandwich—that the Colonel's wife is gone, I have the house to myself.
    No one seems to understand that it's only when I'm on the mountain, on the same path you and Josh took, following in your footsteps, the sound of Josh's laughter just out of sight, beyond the next bend, beckoning to me—it's the only time I'm alive.
    The rest of the time I'm dead, dull, numb, leaden, too heavy to move even to close my eyes and sleep.
    If I could only find you...are you looking for me too? Does Josh cry for his mommy?
    I hope not. I want to think of him happy, not remembering the horror...
    A lawyer came to see me today after the Colonel's wife left. Nice guy. Works for a victims' advocacy project. He heard about us and he's willing to help anyway he can.
    I almost slammed the door in his face. Almost told him the only help I needed was my husband and son back at home where they should be. But he didn't look at me like he was afraid of any sudden moves I might make. He didn't stare, waiting for me to fall apart, to shatter into bits and pieces, tick, tick, boom.
    He sat and listened. And for the first time since you left, I was able to force words past this knot in my throat that's been strangling me. I talked. And talked and talked.
    Poor guy, he probably thought I was nuts. But he didn't run. He listened.
    I even showed him Josh's room, your piano, the songs you were working on. I told him how we met, showed him pictures. You holding Josh after the doctor handed him to you, looking scared and unsure and surprised and delighted all at once. The one of Josh sleeping naked except for his diaper on your bare chest when we were both too exhausted to do laundry. Josh's first birthday, all of us wearing enough birthday cake that we needed hosed off afterwards.
    Alan, that's his name, Alan Easton. He smiled and even laughed. Like no one has in sixteen days—as if it was against the law to laugh in front of a grief-stricken mother and wife.
    I think you'd like him. You know why? 'Cause once his laughter shattered the awful silence shrouding our house I found myself smiling. And babbling. He sat at your piano and my heart squeezed so tight I thought it would burst with pain, but then he began picking out your latest masterpiece.
    You remember: Your eyes remind me of the sky at night, your lips promise me a chance at life....that one.
    Alan tried singing it and, believe it or not, he sounded worse than you! I couldn't help myself. The laughter sparked through me, fizzing up like a bottle of beer shook too hard and I couldn't stop it spurting out.
    I laughed so hard I cried. And once the tears started—remember how I was early on when I was pregnant with Josh? Like that, only worse.
    Alan didn't get that wide-eyed look of horror that everyone else gets when they're with me. He stayed, held my hand while I cried enough water to flood the Sahara. Then