dad took the bait.
On the six o’clock news, when retired special agent Charles Manning presented a series of preemptive tactics to ward off child predators, my parents took notes and implemented the only one that was not already in use. Avoid routines. Rae was instructed to lose her habits, to mix up her daily routine, to become a moving target.
To see the difference, you’d have had to be acquainted with her previous morning ritual: She staggered out of bed at 8:00, brushed her teeth, grabbed a Pop-Tart on her way out the door, and rode her bike to school, slipping into the classroom at 8:30 on the dot. On the weekends, she slept until 10:00 and then spent an hour making an enormous sugar-laden breakfast.
She was given her assignment Sunday night and by the next morning, Rae had fully implemented an entirely new routine.
MONDAY
Rae wakes up at 6:00 A.M . She goes for a twenty-minute jog and takes a shower. Rae doesn’t like jogging—or showering, for that matter. She drinks a glass of calcium-fortified orange juice and eats a bowl of cornflakes. She walks to school, arriving thirty-five minutes early.
TUESDAY
Rae sets her alarm for 7:30 A.M . and hits the snooze button for the next forty-five minutes. She crawls out of bed at 8:15, meanders downstairs to the kitchen, and begins preparing chocolate-chip pancakes from scratch.
Even though my apartment has a fully functioning kitchen, I usually head downstairs in the morning and drink my parents’ coffee and read their paper. I observe Rae’s activities and determine that she is in no rush. Then I state the obvious.
“Rae, it is eight twenty-five.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t school start at eight-thirty?”
“I’m going to be late today,” Rae says casually, as she scoops the pancake batter onto the griddle.
WEDNESDAY
I arrive in the kitchen at 8:10 A.M . Rae pours me a cup of coffee and hands me the newspaper.
“Read fast,” she says. “You’re driving me to school.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this too far, Rae?”
“No, I don’t,” she says, as she takes a bite out of an apple.
The last time I saw Rae eat an apple it was pureed and came in a tiny jar with a picture of a baby on it. In fact, produce in general has never been a part of Rae’s food pyramid, which is primarily built on ice cream, candy, cheese-flavored snack food, and the occasional beef jerky. I’m so pleased to see her ingest something that fell from a tree that I don’t protest when Rae grabs her backpack and tells me she’s going to wait in my car, a 1995 Buick Skylark.
THURSDAY
At 7:45 A.M . my father yells from the bottom of the staircase, “Rae, you still need a ride to school?”
“Yeah!” Rae shouts from a distance.
“Then hurry up,” my father bellows back.
Rae rushes to the top of the staircase, jumps onto the banister, and slides down to the bottom. As she and my father head out the door, my father says, “I asked you not to do that anymore.”
“But you told me to hurry.”
My father tosses Rae a Pop-Tart as they get into the car.
FRIDAY
I enter the kitchen at 8:05 A.M . Rae sits at the table, drinking a glass of milk (another first) and eating a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.
“How are you getting to school today?” I ask, praying that she won’t hit me up for another ride.
“David’s driving me.”
“How did you swing that?”
“We negotiated.”
I don’t bother with a follow-up question. I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at the table.
“You’ve done that five days in a row, Isabel. Drinking coffee and reading the paper.”
“No one is going to abduct me, Rae.”
“That’s what all abductees say.”
My Evidence
The sprawl of facts that I am piecing together comes from an assortment of methods. Through direct contact or indirect observation, by questions after the fact, tape recordings, interviews, photographs, and eavesdropping whenever an opportunity presents itself.
I don’t pretend that my
On the six o’clock news, when retired special agent Charles Manning presented a series of preemptive tactics to ward off child predators, my parents took notes and implemented the only one that was not already in use. Avoid routines. Rae was instructed to lose her habits, to mix up her daily routine, to become a moving target.
To see the difference, you’d have had to be acquainted with her previous morning ritual: She staggered out of bed at 8:00, brushed her teeth, grabbed a Pop-Tart on her way out the door, and rode her bike to school, slipping into the classroom at 8:30 on the dot. On the weekends, she slept until 10:00 and then spent an hour making an enormous sugar-laden breakfast.
She was given her assignment Sunday night and by the next morning, Rae had fully implemented an entirely new routine.
MONDAY
Rae wakes up at 6:00 A.M . She goes for a twenty-minute jog and takes a shower. Rae doesn’t like jogging—or showering, for that matter. She drinks a glass of calcium-fortified orange juice and eats a bowl of cornflakes. She walks to school, arriving thirty-five minutes early.
TUESDAY
Rae sets her alarm for 7:30 A.M . and hits the snooze button for the next forty-five minutes. She crawls out of bed at 8:15, meanders downstairs to the kitchen, and begins preparing chocolate-chip pancakes from scratch.
Even though my apartment has a fully functioning kitchen, I usually head downstairs in the morning and drink my parents’ coffee and read their paper. I observe Rae’s activities and determine that she is in no rush. Then I state the obvious.
“Rae, it is eight twenty-five.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t school start at eight-thirty?”
“I’m going to be late today,” Rae says casually, as she scoops the pancake batter onto the griddle.
WEDNESDAY
I arrive in the kitchen at 8:10 A.M . Rae pours me a cup of coffee and hands me the newspaper.
“Read fast,” she says. “You’re driving me to school.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking this too far, Rae?”
“No, I don’t,” she says, as she takes a bite out of an apple.
The last time I saw Rae eat an apple it was pureed and came in a tiny jar with a picture of a baby on it. In fact, produce in general has never been a part of Rae’s food pyramid, which is primarily built on ice cream, candy, cheese-flavored snack food, and the occasional beef jerky. I’m so pleased to see her ingest something that fell from a tree that I don’t protest when Rae grabs her backpack and tells me she’s going to wait in my car, a 1995 Buick Skylark.
THURSDAY
At 7:45 A.M . my father yells from the bottom of the staircase, “Rae, you still need a ride to school?”
“Yeah!” Rae shouts from a distance.
“Then hurry up,” my father bellows back.
Rae rushes to the top of the staircase, jumps onto the banister, and slides down to the bottom. As she and my father head out the door, my father says, “I asked you not to do that anymore.”
“But you told me to hurry.”
My father tosses Rae a Pop-Tart as they get into the car.
FRIDAY
I enter the kitchen at 8:05 A.M . Rae sits at the table, drinking a glass of milk (another first) and eating a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich.
“How are you getting to school today?” I ask, praying that she won’t hit me up for another ride.
“David’s driving me.”
“How did you swing that?”
“We negotiated.”
I don’t bother with a follow-up question. I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down at the table.
“You’ve done that five days in a row, Isabel. Drinking coffee and reading the paper.”
“No one is going to abduct me, Rae.”
“That’s what all abductees say.”
My Evidence
The sprawl of facts that I am piecing together comes from an assortment of methods. Through direct contact or indirect observation, by questions after the fact, tape recordings, interviews, photographs, and eavesdropping whenever an opportunity presents itself.
I don’t pretend that my
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