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gonna wear one, neither was he). And he certainly wasn’t “thick around the middle.”
    “Maybe not,” she said, “but that’s what this guy looked like. He and that little boy went right out the door, headed for one of those buses. He was carrying a stack of comic books.”
    “Comic books?”
    She nodded. “Must’ve had four or five of them.” She looked up. “You better get going. That bus is pulling out.”
    Colt turned to look. It was the bus heading south, back into Florida. “That’s not our bus. Ours is that one.” He pointed.
    “I don’t know,” the waitress said. “That’s the bus the man and little boy were walking toward.”
    Panic filled his heart. He ran outside just as the bus pulled onto US-1, heading south. He ran after it, fast as he could. It kept shifting gears. He screamed out, “Wait, stop!” His voice was drowned out by the noise of the bus and loud trucks driving by in the left lane. For a moment, he started gaining on it, closing the gap. When he was just about to reach out and bang the side, it shifted gears again and pulled away.
    He screamed again, “Wait, wait! You’ve gotta stop!” It just kept going; the gap grew wider every second. He moved farther out toward the right and looked up at the windows.
    That’s when he saw him.
    Timmy, a few rows up from the back of the bus, sitting by the window next to a man wearing a gray hat. Colt yelled out his name as he ran, over and over again. But Timmy didn’t hear him. He was looking down at something in his hands.
    Colt kept running until the bus reached full speed and went through a traffic light up ahead. He stopped in a patch of grass just off the sidewalk, fell to the ground, and cried.

9

    After making the thirty-minute drive from DeLand, Scott drove slowly past their house on Seaview Avenue, using the route the boys would normally have taken if they had walked home from school. No sign of them. He pulled into the driveway behind the house, then rushed in through the back door, calling out their names.
    There was no reply. He didn’t really expect one.
    He’d fought off feelings of dread and panic on the way here, tried to remain calm and remind himself what he’d said to Gina. They had lived in this town for years and had never heard of any crimes against children. The boys were somewhere safe; they had to be, doing something stupid and disobedient. Boys just being boys.
    But wherever they were doing it, they weren’t doing it here at the house.
    He hurried back to his car. After backing out, he drove slowly around the neighborhood, three or four streets in both directions. Still nothing. Where could they be?
    A few of their friends lived nearby, but Scott had never known which ones. Gina did. It was time to head to the school. As he drove south and turned on Grandview Avenue, he saw a little boy who looked familiar, about Timmy’s age, walking on the sidewalkand pushing a bicycle. When Scott pulled up beside him, he was certain this little boy had played with Timmy in their house. He leaned over, rolled down his window, and said, “Hi, can I ask you a question?”
    The boy glanced at him then picked up his pace. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
    “That’s a good boy. Your parents teach you that?” The boy nodded and kept walking. Scott moved the car forward to keep up. “But I’m not really a stranger. I’m Mr. Harrison, Timmy’s father. Aren’t you Timmy’s friend?”
    The boy stopped and squinted as he looked through the window. “I played with him a few times. We’re in the same grade at school, but we have different teachers.”
    “You’ve been at our house though, right?”
    “I think so. Isn’t it on Seaview Avenue?”
    “That’s right. What’s your name again?”
    “Scotty. Scotty O’Brien. I live on Nautilus.”
    “Scotty, that’s my name too. How come you’re not riding your bike?”
    “Can’t, got a flat.” He pointed to it. “See?”
    Scott thought about offering