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have assumed that was true if police officers hadn’t showed up outside her house with their guns in their hands.
    Purdue’s clothes lay where she’d folded them on the corner of the bed. She realized she hadn’t searched his clothes to see if there were any clues in them about who he was or where he’d come from. She picked up the little bundle, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and carried all of it out of the bedroom, letting Purdue sleep. Downstairs, she went into her kitchen, turned on the lights, and poured herself a double shot of Absolut Mandarin. When she tasted it, the cold, sweet vodka on an empty stomach went straight to her head.
    She examined Purdue’s white T-shirt and white athletic socks. They were standard issue, the kind she would find at any Walmart, including the supercenter in Thief River Falls. His jeans were more interesting. They were stonewashed and featured zippered pockets on the front and back. When she felt the pockets with her fingers, she realized he had things zipped inside, and it gave her hope that maybe some of his secrets were hidden there, too.
    Lisa unzipped one of the front pockets and fished out the contents. It was money, a handful of loose change and a few folded dollar bills that were wet from having gone through the wash. She checked the opposite pocket and found a long silver key that looked like it was made for an automobile. There was just the one key and nothing else. She found it strange that Purdue, who was many years too young to drive, had a car key in his jeans but no key for a house.
    His back pockets were empty. No wallet. No school ID. No phone. Nothing that would make him anything other than Purdue.
    She spotted one more pocket on the side of the boy’s jeans near the knee. It was tiny, barely big enough to hold a credit card, but she realized that something was wedged inside. She yanked open the zipper and scooped out what was in the pocket with one finger. When she held it up, a metal cylinder gleamed in the light. Seeing it, Lisa inhaled sharply.
    It was a spent cartridge from a gun.
    She held the brass in front of her face and rolled it around in her fingers. The mental image of it being used made her twitch. The bang of the shot. The recoil. The ejected brass flying from the gun.
    She wanted to know where Purdue had found it.
    She wanted to know who had fired the gun and where the bullet had gone.
    At that moment, Lisa realized it was all true. Purdue was in danger.
    She finished her vodka in one swallow, and then she gathered up Purdue’s clothes and turned off the kitchen lights. She wanted the house completely dark if anyone showed up here. After she crossed the foyer, she checked the security of the lock and dead bolt on her front door. She went upstairs, where Purdue was still sleeping, and put his T-shirt, socks, and jeans back on the bed. She stuffed the money and car key back into his pockets, but she kept the spent cartridge herself. Then she went into her large walk-in closet and shut the door behind her.
    Lisa changed clothes. She anticipated a long, cold day ahead. She found heavy wool socks in a dresser drawer and a pair of dark corduroys.She grabbed a jean shirt, buttoned it, and left it untucked. She had a white down vest on a hanger, and she took it down by the collar. Finally, she went to the bureau at the far back of the closet and found her gun safe shoved to the rear of the highest shelf. She pulled it into her hands and undid the combination lock and flipped open the top.
    Her Ruger 9 mm semiautomatic pistol was inside, along with a loaded ten-round magazine. It was in perfect condition, only a year old. She’d bought it when she moved to this house, because help was far away when you lived out here and strange things had a way of happening so close to the border. Once a month, she fired at the range, and she was obsessive about keeping the gun clean and lubricated. She’d grown up with guns in her family. Pistols. Shotguns.