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    â€œShe never said the child was schizophrenic, only that her condition resembled it. A huge blank had to be filled in, and she had done the best she could in filling it.
    â€œShe had beautiful table manners,” he said, “and she was well-spoken, polite. Someone had taught her well. Her father really was a housepainter, apparently, who followed the work south in the winter, north in the summer. They had nothing against him or the mother. No sign of any abuse on the child, no old bruises or broken bones, no sexual abuse. They were just poor people getting along as best they could. He had been working in Virginia, on his way to the Boston area when he crashed the truck.”
    He finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “Carol began baby-sitting when she was twelve, and she saved almost every cent she made. Then, all through high school, she had an after-school job at a diner, and she saved that money, too. I think she had already decided she had to hit the road as soon as she got out of school and collected the insurance. She knew it was coming, or I imagine she would have taken off sooner. I took her to buy the car, and gave her the rest of the money in traveler’s checks. Four thousand, plus whatever she had saved. I thought then, and I guess I still think she was trying to track down her family.” He shook his head. “And there wasn’t any family to track. Dead, no relatives. I felt sorry for her. That poor kid had been through hell and was coping one way or another.”
    â€œShe stopped talking about her imaginary family, her aunt and uncle?”
    He nodded. “She stopped talking altogether for a long time, and never said anything meaningful after that. Adrienne scared her with talk of sending her back to the hospital. She had a real phobia about hospitals, explosions, sudden loud noises, fires. She talked about frying once, when she was coming out of a nightmare, babbling. She had been terribly burned, and they tell me physical therapy for burn cases is excruciating. She was terrified of going back there.”
    â€œWas she mentally retarded?” Barbara asked when he paused.
    â€œNo. Traumatized, that’s all. She forgot a lot of her schooling apparently, but after a year or two she caught up and after that she stayed in the top five percentile of her class. She could have had a scholarship if she had chosen that route.”
    He told Barbara the name of the social agency and the caseworker, then spread his hands. “I don’t know if any of this will prove helpful to you. Same incidents, same kid, different slant, that’s what it amounts to. I hope she isn’t in serious trouble. No one should have to go through hell twice in one lifetime.” He eased himself out of the booth.
    â€œYou’ve been very helpful,” Barbara said. “I’m grateful. Thank you.”
    Â 
    Deeply frustrated, she started the drive back to her motel in Phoenix. The heat was as intense as it had been earlier, the glare as bright, and it didn’t help her mood a bit when she saw dust devils spinning across the white sand in the distance. An itinerant housepainter who lived in his truck with his family, migrating like swallows to follow the work, did not seem a likely person to have taught Carrie to read music and play the piano.

6
    â€œA ll I want to do is walk and breathe,” Barbara told Frank on the phone when she got home Saturday. “Just breathe and take in the cool air.”
    â€œHot, was it? Well, August in Arizona,” he said.
    â€œNot too bad. It got down to ninety.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œAt two in the morning.”
    â€œOh. Well, don’t forget we have a date at the clinic tomorrow. Want to come around and pick me up? The reception’s from four until six. I reckon if we make our appearance near five-thirty, that will be plenty of time for both of us.”
    She had forgotten entirely. Now she remembered that they