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dead ones and the guilty ones and even herself.
    She’s trembling, as if she’s been living in Australia or China for decades and now, at last, home is in sight.
    *   *   *
    Jack prays to the God who has not yet answered his prayers.
This
time! Jack prays. You can’t let me down
this
time, God. It’s for Tris! You owe Tris one.
    He has to have divine intervention. On his own, Jack has no power. Not in court, not with the media, not with the family lawyer, not with his sisters. “God!” he yells.
    He reaches Route One. Nobody calls it that. It’s called the Post Road. South of the Post Road, a narrow strip of land is packed tight with houses, and then come the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. North of the Post Road are railroad tracks and the turnpike. West stretches the rest of America.
    Jack doesn’t slow down at intersections, let alone stop. He feels as if he has insect eyes, with extra eyeballs on stalks. He can see through things and under things. Another mile and he shoots into the day-care parking lot. No BMW—Jack feels reasonably sure the TV guy will not travel in Aunt Cheryl’s heavy gray Lincoln with the car seat in the back—but they could be here any second. Chances are, they already phoned.
    He imagines Aunt Cheryl giving instructions to Tris’s teacher, Brianna. “I want Tris to look really cute. If he’s dirty, change him into his extra set of clothing. Brush his hair. Wash his face. He’s going to be on TV! We’re all going to be on TV! Yay!”
    Jack takes a deep breath to subdue his heaving lungs. He doesn’t want to look panicky. He often picks Tris up, so they’re used to him here. But they’ll know that on a Friday at noon, Jack should be in school.
    The entrance is locked. No easy access to a day care. Jack presses the bell and the director says on the intercom, “Who is it?” which is annoying, because she can see him just fine; there’s a camera. He smiles at the camera. “Jack Fountain. I’m here for Tris.”
    She buzzes him in.
    Jack forces himself to stroll past the infant room, the art room and the kiddie computer room, all windowed into the hall, so every teacher can see everything. Teacher eyes follow Jack’s progress.
    In Tris’s classroom a riot of balloons is painted over the walls and ceiling. The door is open, but a gate keeps the kids in. Tris is playing with a three-piece jigsaw puzzle. The best thing Tris has going for him is this place, where he’s happy and busy, and they don’t seem to care about an accident involving a little guy who didn’t know what was happening. Tris’s original day care refused to take him back, a decision that still twists Jack’s gut.
    Brianna is changing a little girl’s diaper. Jack likes Brianna. He has never seen her treat Tris differently from the other kids. “Hi, Brianna.”
    She looks over her shoulder, surprised. “Jack! What’s up? How come you’re here?”
    “Half day.”
    Brianna’s only a few years out of high school. She knows the meaning of the lovely phrase “half day.” She grins.
    Jack steps over the gate and into the room. His little brother races over. “We had finger painting, Jack! Mine is blue! It isn’t dry yet!”
    “We’ll leave it here till it dries,” Jack says. “Because you and I are headed out.” Jack is skin-crawly with nerves. Does he hear a car engine? Will the producer arrive, complete with cameras? Will Jack’s attempt to snatch his brother from the jaws of reality TV end up on film?
    He swings Tris up to sit on his hip. Tris isn’t big. He’s still easy to hold toddler style. “Have a nice weekend, Brianna. Say bye-bye, Tris.” Jack steps back over the gate.
    “Where are you going?” asks Brianna, not to rat on him, but so that next Monday, she can ask Tris about his big adventure.
    Jack does not have the slightest idea where they are going. Plan A is to get Tris before Aunt Cheryl can. Plan B, and for that matter, Plans C through Z, haven’t come to him yet.