few inches shorter than me. Red hair beneath a Yankees cap. Freckles stood out starkly against his nose, now that he'd gone so pale.
His eyes were blue. They narrowed as his gaze flicked first over me, then behind me, toward Rob.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He didn't shout it, any more than I'd shouted his name. Still, I heard the undercurrent of fear in his little-boy voice.
I got as far as the sidewalk before I thought I'd better stop. He looked ready to bolt.
"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Your name's not Sean?"
"No," the kid said, in that snotty way kids talk when they're scared, only they don't want it to show. "My name's Sam."
I shook my head slowly. "No, it isn't," I said. "Your name's Sean. Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. It's okay, Sean. You can trust me. I'm here to help you. I'm here to help get you home."
What happened next was this:
The kid went, if such a thing is possible, even whiter. At the same time, his body seemed to turn into Jell-O, or something. He dropped the jean jacket as if it weighed too much for him to hold on to anymore, and I could see his fingers shaking.
Then he rushed me.
I don't know what I thought he was going to do. Hug me, I guess. I thought maybe he was so happy and grateful at being found, he was going to throw himself into my arms and give me a great big kiss for having come to his rescue.
That was so not what he did.
What he did instead was reach out and grab me by the wrist—quite painfully, I might add—and hiss, "
Don't you tell anyone. Don't you ever tell anyone you saw me, understand
?"
This was not exactly the kind of reaction I'd been expecting. I mean, it would have been one thing if we'd gotten to Paoli and I had found out the house I'd dreamed about didn't exist. But it did exist. And what's more, in front of that house was the kid from the milk carton. I'd have staked my life on it.
Only, for some reason, the kid was claiming he was someone else.
"I am not Sean Patrick O'Hanahan," he whispered in a voice that was as filled with anger as it was with fear. "So you can just go away, do you hear? You can just go away.
And don't ever come back
."
It was at this point that the front door to the little house opened, and a woman's voice called, sharply, "Sam!"
The kid let go of me at once.
"Coming," he said, his voice shaking as badly as his fingers were.
He threw me just one more furious, frightened look as he stooped to pick his jean jacket up off the lawn. Then he ran inside and slammed the door behind him without glancing in my direction again.
Standing out on the sidewalk, I stared at that closed door. I listened to the sounds of the birds, of the children I could hear playing somewhere nearby. I could still smell the burgers grilling, and something else: fresh-cut grass. Someone had taken advantage of the unseasonable warmth and mowed their lawn.
Nothing inside the house in front of me stirred. Not a blind Was lifted. Nothing.
But everything—everything I had ever known—was different now.
Because that kid
was
Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. I knew it as well as I knew my name, my brothers' names. That kid was Sean Patrick O'Hanahan.
And he was in trouble.
"Kid's a little young for you," I heard a voice behind me point out, "don't you think?"
I turned around. Rob was still straddling the motorcycle. He'd taken his helmet off, and was observing me with a perfectly impassive expression on his good-looking face.
"Takes all kinds, I guess," he said with a shrug. "Still, I didn't have you pegged for having a Boy Scout fixation."
I probably should have told him. I probably should have said right then,
Look, I saw that kid on the back of a milk carton. Let's go get the police
.
But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do.
I didn't understand what was happening to me.
"Well," Rob said. "We could stand around out here all night, if you want to. But the smell of those burgers is making me hungry. What do you
His eyes were blue. They narrowed as his gaze flicked first over me, then behind me, toward Rob.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He didn't shout it, any more than I'd shouted his name. Still, I heard the undercurrent of fear in his little-boy voice.
I got as far as the sidewalk before I thought I'd better stop. He looked ready to bolt.
"Oh, yeah?" I said. "Your name's not Sean?"
"No," the kid said, in that snotty way kids talk when they're scared, only they don't want it to show. "My name's Sam."
I shook my head slowly. "No, it isn't," I said. "Your name's Sean. Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. It's okay, Sean. You can trust me. I'm here to help you. I'm here to help get you home."
What happened next was this:
The kid went, if such a thing is possible, even whiter. At the same time, his body seemed to turn into Jell-O, or something. He dropped the jean jacket as if it weighed too much for him to hold on to anymore, and I could see his fingers shaking.
Then he rushed me.
I don't know what I thought he was going to do. Hug me, I guess. I thought maybe he was so happy and grateful at being found, he was going to throw himself into my arms and give me a great big kiss for having come to his rescue.
That was so not what he did.
What he did instead was reach out and grab me by the wrist—quite painfully, I might add—and hiss, "
Don't you tell anyone. Don't you ever tell anyone you saw me, understand
?"
This was not exactly the kind of reaction I'd been expecting. I mean, it would have been one thing if we'd gotten to Paoli and I had found out the house I'd dreamed about didn't exist. But it did exist. And what's more, in front of that house was the kid from the milk carton. I'd have staked my life on it.
Only, for some reason, the kid was claiming he was someone else.
"I am not Sean Patrick O'Hanahan," he whispered in a voice that was as filled with anger as it was with fear. "So you can just go away, do you hear? You can just go away.
And don't ever come back
."
It was at this point that the front door to the little house opened, and a woman's voice called, sharply, "Sam!"
The kid let go of me at once.
"Coming," he said, his voice shaking as badly as his fingers were.
He threw me just one more furious, frightened look as he stooped to pick his jean jacket up off the lawn. Then he ran inside and slammed the door behind him without glancing in my direction again.
Standing out on the sidewalk, I stared at that closed door. I listened to the sounds of the birds, of the children I could hear playing somewhere nearby. I could still smell the burgers grilling, and something else: fresh-cut grass. Someone had taken advantage of the unseasonable warmth and mowed their lawn.
Nothing inside the house in front of me stirred. Not a blind Was lifted. Nothing.
But everything—everything I had ever known—was different now.
Because that kid
was
Sean Patrick O'Hanahan. I knew it as well as I knew my name, my brothers' names. That kid was Sean Patrick O'Hanahan.
And he was in trouble.
"Kid's a little young for you," I heard a voice behind me point out, "don't you think?"
I turned around. Rob was still straddling the motorcycle. He'd taken his helmet off, and was observing me with a perfectly impassive expression on his good-looking face.
"Takes all kinds, I guess," he said with a shrug. "Still, I didn't have you pegged for having a Boy Scout fixation."
I probably should have told him. I probably should have said right then,
Look, I saw that kid on the back of a milk carton. Let's go get the police
.
But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do.
I didn't understand what was happening to me.
"Well," Rob said. "We could stand around out here all night, if you want to. But the smell of those burgers is making me hungry. What do you
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