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prayers. I was on the verge of correcting her, but Daniel said, “Baby Miracle’s having a little dream.”
    We all leaned in and looked closely, but the sleeping child’s face seemed no different to me.
    Volpe asked, “What is she dreaming about?”
    Daniel glanced at my mother and then at me, as if seeking permission. Neither of us told him not to answer, so he did.“About angels. All babies come from heaven but they forget when they start growing up. So she’s dreaming all about it while she still remembers.”
    This delighted Volpe, who got so choked up she had to tug a white handkerchief from her pocket. “God’s greatest blessing,” she said, fighting back tears as she poked a folded corner up inside her gold glasses.
    When her cell phone rang, it startled us all. She answered it and listened, then said, “No, we’re downstairs. Yes, in the visitors’ room.”
    â€œTime for us to go, Ma,” I said.
    Volpe shot me a sharp look.
    â€œWhat’s this about?” my mother said.
    â€œIt’s about us leaving,” I told her. I took Daniel’s hand and started for the door, but something anchored me.
    Volpe had ahold of his other hand. She bent down and said, “I never stopped believing in you, Daniel. Lo these many trials, I never once doubted.” Her eyes were bright and shiny, the way eyes get just before tears come on. “I swear by the grace of God,” she said, “others will know what you’ve done here. I will spread word of the wonders you have worked.”
    Over my dead body, you psycho bitch , I thought.
    And that’s as good a place as any to mark as the birth of the Anti-Miracle Plan.

CHAPTER THREE
    T here was a time when the whole world prayed for Daniel. Maybe you were part of it. Maybe, like tens of thousands of true believers, you closed your eyes and pressed your palms tight together and begged whatever God rules your heaven to please help that poor boy who’d been swallowed up by the earth. I did. That second night in the woods east of Roosevelt Park, I prayed as hard as anybody ever prayed in the history of praying. And for a while, it seemed to work.
    When Daniel first disappeared in the forest, I assumed he was messing around, being a pain like little brothers can be. Just three years old, he’d tagged along with Jeff Cedars and me on a hike up to the fairy fort, a collection of ancient stones stacked in towers and circular patterns. Irene McGinley and the other Irish immigrants were the first to call it a fairy fort, but legend has it that even the Indians who lived in the valley way back when didn’t know who’d set up the stones or why. They dealt with the mystery by showing the stones respect and leaving them alone—wisdom I wish I had followed.
    The fairy fort is up above the wild apple orchard in this giant depression in the ground, like a huge sinkhole or a prehistoric crater, big as a football field. No trees grow in the fort, but leaves and pine needles drift down every fall, and when Jeff and I realizedDaniel wasn’t in sight, we charged around the stones, kicking through the thick carpet, hollering out Daniel’s name. There was no way he could’ve climbed out of the fort without us seeing, so he had to be playing hide-and-seek. But after ten minutes, I started getting pretty ticked off. My mother would be putting dinner on soon enough, and Dad would be crazy mad if we were late.
    Twenty minutes after Daniel disappeared, a light drizzle began to pitter-patter the leaves and darken the stones. Jeff said, “Something’s not right. What if he’s not playing around?”
    â€œGet my dad,” I told him. “I’ll stay here and keep looking.”
    When Jeff returned, he had not only my dad with him, but Chief Bundower too, being tugged ahead by Pinkerton. The old bloodhound strained against the end of the leash, sliding his head back and forth