The Hours of Change

Prologue

The hospital room is dim and smells of her uneaten food, a plate of now cold turkey and peas that lie still with her. The effects of the morphine are wearing thin as she becomes aware of a tender pain at her lower abdomen and, more acutely, that of her restless newborn child.

It is a boy. Though she isn’t exceptionally religious, she has named him Joshua, a Hebrew name meaning God Rescues, a name to convince her that, despite the chaos swirling around this child—in war, in terror, in a failing economy—he is protected.

His name says so.

She had alluded to its meaning during an intense labor, one that had warranted an emergency caesarean. Her umbilical cord had threatened to strangle baby Josh—how so? that a mother could endanger her own child?

“Alright God…” she had whispered to the ceiling, “if you’re up there, how about rescuing both of us.”

And He had.

Oh, how he had. At a healthy eight pounds, two ounces, Joshua had announced himself, first, to the nimble nurse who cleaned and weighed him and, next, to Serena.

“His Apgar scores are just fine, and his coloring is perfect, Mom. He’s beautiful,” the nurse said, handing him to Serena. “Look at that little face.”

“Thank you,” Serena had whispered, studying his miniature features; the morsel nose, the pouting lips that trembled, and the bent little fingers that seemed too small to be real.

Thinking back, she cries some more—will she ever stop?—and lifts Joshua’s head to her nipple. A night light casts a pair of white lines over the bed that reminds her of skis. She shifts beneath the covers and they split, reminding her of geometry, of the words parallel and intersect. For a moment, she is struck by a math lesson for the kids; but their faces, like her teaching job, seem light years away now.

With her, instead, is the scent of hand lotion, more sanitary than herbal, and the soft tapping sound of shoes. It is Rebecca, the more compassionate of a trio of nurses who flurry in throughout the night.

“After this feeding, why don’t you take a break, Mum. He’ll be fine in the nursery. We’re fully loaded tonight, no one’s called in sick yet,” she says, her fingers crossed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately…it’s just—”

“Overwhelming?” Rebecca sidles up beside her, touches her arm. She is so put-together and amazingly independent that a new batch of tears spring from her eyes.

“It’s perfectly normal to feel this way after giving birth. And don’t worry, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you have post-partum depression. You’re trying to function on a couple hours of sleep, if that, not to mention that your body is recovering from a major surgery.” She squeezes Serena’s shoulder. “You really need to give yourself a break, honey.”

Rebecca, it seems then, knows what she’s talking about and, despite Serena’s reservations about leaving Josh at the nursery, she will consider the advice.

“When Mom takes care of herself, she’s better at taking care of baby, trust me,” she goes on, offering Serena a tissue. “Try and fall asleep until his next feeding, probably around 3 a.m., and you’ll feel refreshed to see him. You won’t even know he was gone. I’ll be overseeing the nursery tonight. While I’m at it, I’ll work at inventing a way for men to grow breasts. How does that sound?”

Serena lets out a chortle that, despite its subtlety, causes her incision to throb wildly. Nevertheless, it feels good to be understood.

“I guess you’re right. I’ll function better on more sleep. And now that he’s been fed, he’ll probably sleep the whole time anyway," she says, sailing her pinky along the fuzz of Josh’s head.

Rebecca smiles. “Very true. And, first sign of waking, I’ll wheel him right back to you.”

Her eyes sting. They are tired of crying. She is tired of being tired. Her face, she senses, is distorted by the birth of her son. A salty puffiness has claimed her body, from her cheeks to her swollen ankles. She is a bobbling ocean tube for her baby to rest on and this new body makes her feel alone, as though she may float away. Serena is a disaster. She will accept help from the lovely Rebecca.

“Alright, here’s the little guy,” she says, sniffling. Gently, she props baby Joshua into the nurse’s cradled arms. He remains asleep and the transition is smooth.

“Please bring him back to me if he cries, no matter what time it is, okay?”

“Got it. Now get some sleep, you!” Rebecca chides.

Joshua is wheeled away before she has a chance to change her mind.

* * *

Nine Years Later
Franconia Notch State Park - Cannon Mountain, New Hampshire
January, 2009

One

The ski lodge smells of cedar, that and the smoky scent of a crackling fire. There are skis, boots, vests, and gloves scattered around her family, a scene that reminds Serena of her son’s bedroom. He was supposed to organize it before leaving, a chore intended to help the lad earn his keep and mind the family budget—one compromised by his favorite and absurdly expensive habit, snow-boarding. Pressed for time to head out the door while making last minute arrangements for the dog; Josh dodged another bullet.

“Looks sort of like your bedroom around here, you think?” She stretches her long legs out at the sofa, feeling more athletic than usual.

“How much does it cost to stay here, Mom?”

Joshua is a caring child, a trait that often causes her to melt in the face of ‘tough love’. His large brown eyes are concerned, as though he has burdened his parents with the cost. On their combined teaching salaries, it is very possible that he has. But he is worth it, she decides, knowing that Doug shares the thought.

“As soon as you make it big as a pro football player, you’ll have to take me and your mom to Colorado for some serious ski lessons,” he says, mussing his son’s hair.

“Yeah, right…” Josh smiles to the floor, the weight of his forearms pressed against his knees. With his legs forced apart this way, he appears larger, older.

“What kind of soup do you want, honey? I’ll go grab us a few bowls.”

“Do they have clam chowder or vegetable here?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure they have both of those but I’m not sure I’d trust the chowder here,” she says, priming him for the vegetable. “I mean… it won’t be like Maine’s, that’s for sure.”

“What are you having, Daddy?”

The question thwarts all hope of a veggie.

“I think I’ll go with the chowder. And a coffee,” Doug says, quick to confirm the thought.

“Yeah…I guess I’ll have that, too. Do they have root beer here, Mom?”
Flexing a bicep, she answers him. “You need to be strong for the slopes. Milk.”

“Fine,” he says, grinning. “Strawberry milk?”

“Let’s not push it, pal.”

Serena smirks and heads for the lodge’s cafeteria, located adjacent to the main lobby. Her quads feel tighter than usual as she walks, the result of exaggerating the squat pose for stretches of time that are too long for a forty year old.

Snowboarding is an unnatural sport, she thinks to herself, marked by the ultimate challenge of reaching the mountain's bottom while balancing on a sleek board. And forming a letter ‘s’ in the process. It was no wonder that she’d failed miserably.

“You alright!”

Doug's holler rings in her mind - the slide-in for the rescue as he yanked her from the snow with the vitality of a lifeguard. Warmed by the thought of her husband, she enters the cafeteria.

Skiers relax in sectional sofas and rustic wooden chairs; some sipping cocoa, others staring into the fireplace. Their attire is modish, waterproof undergarment jerseys and nylon vests etched with name brands and proper linings. Serena wonders whether or not the crisp dress code is a reflection of their performance on the slopes.

Considering her own bargain priced yoga pants and the oversized sweatshirt falling to her knees, she guesses that it is. Nevertheless, the ambience is inviting and, novice or not, Serena enters the scene as though she blends.

She follows the peppery aroma of soup to the far end of the room, to a steamy foursome of stainless steel canisters. The aroma rouses her empty stomach and, in hungry haste, she is clumsy with the lids and ladles.

They clang recklessly, interrupting conversation in the dining area as she draws three bowls of soup; and then, more gracefully, sets them down on a tray. While plucking earth-friendly napkins from the dispenser, she senses another person from behind. The scent of his cologne, bold and distinct, rallies with the more appealing smell of soup. Twitching her nose, she reaches for crackers, uncomfortable with the sudden infliction to her personal space.

“I saw your son up there on the White Diamond,” he says, helping himself to a cup of minestrone.

“My son?” She tosses a glance back, covering her mouth to block a cough induced by his scent. His looks, along with his cologne, are strong. The man is soap opera handsome.

“Little man with the bright yellow vest?" he asks, concentrating on his tray, "he’s a whiz on the slopes. I couldn’t believe how well he does for someone his age. What is he…like nine?”

“Y-yes, he is. And thank you,” she stammers, caught off guard by his accuracy. “He’s had solid instruction back home.”

He shakes a sugar packet into his coffee, sending forth a second round of his whiff. “That’ll do it. Where are you from?”

“Mass…Massachusetts,” she says, reaching for silverware.

“O.k.,” he nods, as though impressed by the state, despite the fact that the mountains of New Hampshire are superior. “I actually train boarders. Instruction makes a huge difference, especially when it comes to preventing injury. You wouldn’t believe the accidents we see with kids who decide to wing it around here.”

“You train here?”

“I do. At the front desk you can get my brochure with the schedule. I do individual and group lessons.” He deserts his tray to dig into his pocket. “Here’s my card.”

“Thanks so much…” she places the card on her tray, “but we’ll probably hold off for the remainder of this winter. I’ll see what my husband thinks about next year. Have a great night, now.”

“Take care,” he says with a wink.

She balances her tray and walks away, the white of his teeth fresh in her mind. He seems familiar but with those looks, she decides, she has seen him everywhere. He is attractive in the same way that a Ken doll is thought to be handsome, a stereotype of the perfect man.

She walks away, eager to serve her family soup.
*
Back at the lounge, Doug and Josh face the flat-screen television set like a pair of moths on a warm window. A snowboarding competition is under way.

“Mom, look at this boarder! He just jumped like fifteen feet in the air!”

His enthusiasm is contagious. She places the tray down on the center coffee table
and tunes in. “Whoa. They are fantastic. Is that Neil Whitley?”

“Daddy, is that Neil Whitley?”

“I think it is,” Doug answers, though Serena can tell by his altered focus to the soup tray that he has no idea whether or not it is Neil Whitley. She smiles to herself. Admittedly, she has done the same.

“Hey budsie, let’s have some supper. Oh, and by the way, I met one of your fans in the cafeteria.”

Josh tilts his head, a question.

“One of the instructors here saw you on the White Diamond. He said you looked extremely good for someone your age.”

Doug rips open a package of oyster crackers, dumps them into his soup. “Smart instructor.”

“Hmm.” Josh shrugs the comment off. Neil Whitley is back on the jump. “How high do you think he’ll get this time?” A dribble of chowder escapes his lips. With his thumb, he pushes it back.

“Here you go, honey.” A napkin.

“How long do you think they practice for this, Daddy?”

Before Doug has a chance to answer, another voice is suddenly with them, an energetic one. “Those guys?”

It is Mr. Soap Opera, back with his scent and more small talk or, more likely, to drum up more business.

Serena wipes the corner of her mouth, adjusts her headband. “Oh, hi…this is my son, Josh, and my husband, Doug. This is the 'fan' I was telling you about, honey,” she says, winking. “I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name in the cafeteria.”

His arm stretches, first, to Josh— "Hey Bud, I’m Steven Roth,”—and next, to Doug, “your son’s a pro.”

“Thank you.” Doug pats his son on the back and smiles proudly. A semi-athletic parent, he will take partial credit for his son’s skill. Serena frets that he will also launch into a snow story that is too long and exaggerated for the average listener.

She cuts the line. “Steven was telling me that he offers lessons at this lodge, honey. Maybe next year we can think about them?”

Doug scratches his head and answers with a thoughtful nod, the rain-check maneuver a favorite tactic. “Yeah, this year wouldn’t work with our schedules, but we’ll definitely look into it for next winter.”

Josh continues to study Steven, mesmerized by his height it seems.

Aware of his positive effect on the boy, Steven bends in closer, places his hands on his knees; accentuating yet a new muscle. “I’ll tell you what, buddy…I’ll offer you a free lesson tomorrow if you want, see if you jive with my style. It’s a little late now but—”

“It’s not too late!” Josh’s head snaps to his mom, to his dad.

“Now? Honey, it’s seven thirty. You’re legs must be tired and we have—”
“No, they’re not even tired at all! And the lights are on outside! I’ve never had a chance to snowboard under the lights!”

Doug rubs his forehead and chuckles, knowing his son, this story.

Roth presses his hands together like a shark’s fin. “Well, technically, we allow instruction until nine p.m. and typically these lessons are private..." he pauses as though the news is sacred, "not as many kids sign up at night. But it’s up to you guys. I’ll be here tomorrow as well."

The man’s biceps, beneath his ‘under armor’ silk athletic shirt are impressive. For a shameful second, Serena yearns to be his student. Her question, maternal, betrays nothing.

“How long will the lesson be, Steven?”

“We’ll be out for about forty five minutes. I can have him back here by eight fifteen if you want.”

Doug stands up, makes the decision. “I’ll go out with him, honey.”

“Yes!!” Josh shakes a fist in mock victory, the extension to his night an impressive win.

“Alright, you two. Be safe,” she says. “I’ll go settle into our room. See you soon, Mr. Whitley.”

He is already snapping his helmet into place and his face appears smaller, younger again. She cups his chin and kisses his nose. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

She listens to fragments of snow board chatter, moguls, lift, precision, heel-side, pivot… all the way to the elevator. And though a part of her is worried about the decision, one made spontaneously, and much too late!—she is quelled by the image of her son’s joy, of the light in his eyes in seizing the opportunity to snowboard at night.

After all, she tells herself, these are the memories to live for.
 
Two

The second floor bedroom, colonial inspired, is decorated warmly. Two full-sized beds, quilted brightly in star patterns, top a creaky hardwood floor that is nonetheless charming. Heavy checkered curtains hang to the floor from fat wooden dowels that are stained a dark walnut. The lighting is dim, offering a final touch to a cozy effect that is irresistibly winter in New England.

At sunrise, the view at the room’s window (the east side), will be magnificent; a landscape of snow capped mountains splintered with sunlight. In the dark, they are bulks of shadow, frozen giants of the night.

She closes the curtain and re-visits the luggage, realizing that, once again, she has over-packed. There are enough clothes to last for a week, yet her family is staying for two nights only. Foiled again, she places heaps of underwear, sweatshirts, and ski-wear in the top drawer of a stodgy oak armoire, allotting the bottom two for the boys.

Her eye catches the red fabric of Josh’s favorite pajamas, the baseball pattern of which is worn and faded. She separates the pair from the pile; caresses, remembers…

It is Christmas morning and he is padding down the stairs much too fast. The pajamas are too long and she worries that he will trip. George, usually indolent, is wide awake this morning, wiggling at the bottom of the staircase, his fear of the climb a constant deterrent. Keen in his sense of excitement, the bulldog’s smile spans his head, as though a child has drawn it on.

The sound of the telephone, old-fashioned and much too loud, shakes the memory away.

“Hello?” Perhaps a problem with her credit card?

“Hello…Mrs. Davis?”

“Y-yes, this is she.”

“Hi, this is Chloe at the front desk. I’m just calling to let you know that your husband has just come in with a minor accident on the slopes.”

“Ooh…” she manages to say, pressing a finger against her bottom lip.

“It’s nothing serious, Mrs. Davis. Just a slight wrist injury…we see this all the time, no worries at all. He’s being taped up now. We’ve advised him to go easy tomorrow and, certainly, to get it x-rayed when you get back home if it gets worse. Wrist injuries are quite common around here, trust me.”

“Al…alright. You know what…” she says, reading the clock, “I’ll be right down.”

*

Chloe is poised at the counter, clearly unaffected by ski injuries. She is wearing a red turtle neck beneath a vest that is hand-knitted and garish in its holiday sell. Her braids, along with sewn-on glitter ornaments, hang long. The ensemble is overwhelming.

“Hello. You must be Mrs. Davis,” she says, looking up from her keyboard.

“Hi. And yes. Is my husband here?”

“Oh, he’ll be just fine, still in First Aid, first hallway to the left…” she says, pointing out the direction before adding, “he fell on his hands, happens all the time with amateurs.”

The assassination is mild. Serena will pardon Chloe’s ignorance knowing that, if present, Doug would laugh the comment off, his sense of humor heartier than her own. She swallows a come-back.

“Thank you, Chloe. I’m just going to pop outside and take a peek at my son. He’s with one of your instructors, Mr. Roth. Steven Roth.”

To the name, Chloe pauses, her response put on hold.

Serena’s heartbeat flutters, a trapped sparrow in her chest.

“We don’t employ a man by that name.”

The sparrow flaps wildly. “I met him in the cafeteria earlier,” she thumbs back,“ he was...I mean he gave me his card, says I could pick up a brochure here?”

Chloe’s chest stiffens as she inhales. “Just a minute, please. It’s possible that he runs private lessons and I just haven’t heard of him.” Her chubby hand picks up the phone but Serena cannot wait. Her legs move her back; to the door, then the handle. And outside.

The air is moist, smells of night and snow. She whispers his name as she walks, can see him in her mind… hunched over his board, the white helmet, the white spray as he comes to a halt at the bottom and, most endearing, the satisfaction in his eyes as he looks up. She will envision him this way and, like so many times before—at the grocery store, in the shopping mall, at the bookstore—her heart will jump to him as, somewhat shamefully, she will question the worry. Later, in re-telling the incident to Doug, she will blame the media for creating such fear in their obnoxious coverage of everything negative. Then, as they have done so many times before, she and Doug will agree to avoid the news.

A brisk walk takes her to the lodge’s backside, to a mountainous landscape that is the inspiration for so many photographs at surrounding New Hampshire gift shops. She has reveled in this scene, has purchased this scene in postcards and calendars, always a spiritual inscription at the bottom. The outdoor picture, now, poses as a threat. The mountains are humbled.

The view is too large and her eyes can barely scan it fast enough: the slopes, the lift, the clusters of skiers, the rope, the hot chocolate tent…she sweeps through them in a gaze. No Josh. Intuitively, aggressively, she moves toward a bright orange ski vest, an employee. He is bent over his snowboard, adjusting the bindings. She drills into his space.

“Excuse me, Sir….you work here right?”

Resting an elbow on one knee, he looks up as though to say ‘yes’, and ‘shoot’.

“Hello. Hi. My name is Serena Davis. My husband, Doug, and my son, Joshua, were just out here about twenty minutes ago for a lesson with Roth…I mean…” she closes her eyes, “Steven Roth’s the name…we met him—”

“If they’re on a lesson ma’am, they probably just haven’t come down yet. What did you say the instructor’s name was?”

By now she is panting. Her heartbeat is irregular. She is irregular. Her panic, she knows, will upstage her soft looks, blonde looks that have reprieved speeding tickets, looks that have coerced men to open doors.

She spit outs, "Roth. Steven Roth’s the name. My husband was ushered into the lodge with a wrist injury, maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. Front…front desk called me down and said they don’t know his name. I’m concerned,” she huffs. “Would you mind helping me locate them? I mean, I don’t mean to be a pain, it’s just that…” she squeezes her thumb, “I’m worried.”

The man with the bright orange vest cannot possibly say no. As though answering her thoughts, he springs up. “Come with me, let’s check out the slopes. I’ll beep the front desk to let them know where we are.” Then he hops on his board and skates forward, one foot doing the work, the other resting at the back as he glides ahead.

“What level is your son at?” he turns to ask.

She jogs to keep up. “He’s mastered all of the basic levels…he’s basically at the top which I think is—”

“Seven? Then he must be on Point Sara, tough trail but a great challenge for the experts.”

“Sir, do you know this instructor,” she says, nearly breathless in her haste to keep up. “I mean he gave me his business card in the cafeteria, nice-looking man, tall, very knowledgeable, dark hair…”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

They are at the ski lift by now, along with a few other groups, a trio of young girls and, further ahead, a pack of young men. The chair-lift stops and moves ahead at mechanical intervals until a teen, fooling purposely, misses her opportunity to hop on. Her friends shout back to her, hilarious.

The man activating the lift has a voice that is as mechanical as the machine’s.
“Get on the next chair, ma’am. Move up to the line, please.”

Serena and the man with the orange vest are next.

“Quick. Let’s hop on,” he says, guiding her by the shoulder. “So, level seven boarder with an instructor named Roth. Here we come.”

They jump on and the chair swings upward as they settle to its back. He pulls the safety arm down and an emphatic clang confirms the lock. She clutches the metal handle. Her hands tremble to vibration. Winter trees pass them like old friends.
“Listen, I’m going to scan the left side and you do the same on your right. Point Sara is for expert skiers so it should be less crowded, especially at night.”

He is taking this seriously, nearly shouting beside her. His command is delivered with such conviction that, for a moment in time, she is relieved. She envisions Josh at the top of the mountain, prepared for descent: the bent knees, the slight lean forward, the stiff hands. Sheer focus. She will not holler to him immediately, will hold her adrenaline back, hide her worry…and sink back to relief.

Then she will thank this man with the gratitude of a baby bird receiving the entire sky for the first time. The freedom will be glorious. The mountains will return to their magnificent pose.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier,” she says, still dreaming.

“Jim,” he says, tightening the Velcro of his glove strap, “…and yours?”

“Serena,” she says, unprepared for the tears that pool in her eyes. With cold fingers, she dots the corners. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…he’s such a wonderful boy, you know. I mean, I know every parent thinks that about their kid…but this one,” she goes on, sniffling, “my child is one of a kind. So caring, so—”

“Please…” he interrupts, touching her arm. “I understand.”

But she does not want Jim to understand. Rather, she wants Jim to strip this problem from her in the same manner that he might pull a band-aid off of a cut, quick and painless, masculine-style. It will only sting for a moment because he will reassure her that parents worry like this all the time. She will believe him. Oh, how she will believe him.

The Jim beside her does not act like the one she imagines. He remains quiet and the fright between them lingers cruelly. She glances back, the lodge appearing smaller in the distance, a snow-capped shack. The chilly air chafes her cheeks, sucking color from her.

There are but a few skiers gliding in unison down the mountain, blissfully unaware, in sync with nature, and she envies them now. Snowboarding is about freedom, the experts say, a means to express oneself, the healthiest pill for winter depression. In the confines of her situation—cold on so many levels—she can only shudder to the irony.

“Alright, here we are,” Jim says, a few feet shy of where they’re supposed to hop off.

They judge the transition perfectly, Jim hopping off then gliding on his board; she, jogging behind him. The snow fills her boots immediately. Trampling forward, she attacks the view.

As far as her eyes take her, there is no one.

But then she sees her, gliding upward on the lift, wearing an expression of stone.

It is Chloe, back with news that cannot be good.


Three

The amber alert has been made and the investigation tumbles in. The mountains of Franconia Notch, as though embarrassed by the news, turn red as emergency vehicles illuminate them. Car doors slam. Flashlights beam. Men and women in uniform galvanize a rescue team to do whatever it takes to find the child. Skiers glide forward slowly. Grief has quieted them.

The designated ski area, roped off, forces bystanders back, their faces cold with worry for the lost boy. Murmurs of gossip coat the area. Clouds of breath linger then fade into crisp air—air coated with winter, night, and the sudden treachery of both.

Doug and Serena sit on a wooden bench that is not meant for this. They sit beside Chief McKenzie, a burly Irishman leading the investigation. His detective, a pert woman in her thirties, chooses to stand while mobilizing a small electronic device which, most likely, will be used for recording. Her hair is fastened into a vicious bun that sits properly at the nape of her neck.

“Let me introduce you to Detective Hearns,” he says, eyeing his partner, “when it comes to abductions, she’s unmatched.”

Abductions. She hears the word but, like a letter placed in the wrong mailbox, it seems to belong to someone else.

Ms. Hearns nods confidently. Her lips are a thin line ending in a pair of commas. “If we put our heads together, we can crack this one, folks. Not a lot of time has passed and that’s a good thing.”

McKenzie uses his hands to deliver more, “We should have this entire area combed and sniffed out within the hour and the force is blocking off highway exits and major intersections as we speak. Right now, I’d like to run through the sequence of events, exactly as they happened, prior to the incident.”

Incident. The loss of her son has become an incident, the shatter of her world a mere protocol in police culture. Chief McKenzie and Detective Hearns should not be blamed for this horror but, at the moment, she resents both of them.

“Excuse me, but instead of documenting the facts,” she says with a halting hand, “I think we should look some more, just search, just search this mountain, he’s gotta’ be here, I mean…” tears finish her ramble.

She wipes her wet face and stares at Doug, in search of an answer to the madness that has found them. He does not offer one. His face is chilling, grey. It is his way. He can give nothing because he has nothing. Along with Josh, Doug is
somewhere else. The thought is torturous.

“Serena, I was with him last. I’ll go through the facts,” he says to the ground.

“Mrs. Davis, your husband and I will tackle the sequence. This isn’t easy and I apologize for the cool nature of this exercise. If you need some time to look, or…” McKenzie struggles for the right words, “anything…we’ll be here.”

Cloaked in pain, she whispers, ‘find him’ and walks away.

The detective’s voice cuts through the air from behind. “Mrs. Davis, I can assure you that we will give one hundred ten percent here.”

She reflects on the promise, one offered with respect to the crime and, to a lesser extent, to her grief. But Serena she does not want one hundred ten percent. She wants her son back.

She walks and stumbles ahead, possessed by thoughts that control her now. Her mind is dark, her breathing erratic. The innocence of a life she once knew has been raped and she feels dangerously exposed by what she cannot bear: Losing her child. This is not supposed to happen to mothers like Serena, to fathers like Doug. God wouldn't allow it.

A family of pine trees finds her, draws her closer, until she is enshrouded by a cloak of frosted branches. She weaves in and out of them, stomping uphill, searching as though hypnotized, the air seeming to hold a secret. There is too much quiet and, instinctively, she pats her sweatshirt pocket for her cell phone before remembering that it is back in the room. Her mind settles like a fly on the memory of her hand before this happened, a hand that gently closed the drawer shut. Innocently. And now? Why this?

Tears flood her, define her. It must be around eight-thirty by now. Josh would have closed his book by now, Harry Potter, the third one. She pictures him, cross-legged, concentrating on his page as a waft of Christmas-smelling air attacks the vision, souring it with the cold truth. She cups her nose with cold hands, hoping to suffocate the smell, the scene, and the hours that have passed.

To her left, one hundred feet away, the rescue team swarms the slopes. Through her tears, the scene blurs like a watercolor print. She blinks and the image comes back into focus, a moving picture of German Shepherds. Voraciously, they climb, sniff, and move in the snow, in search of…she cannot bring herself to think his name because to think it, to say it, will validate that he is gone and he is not gone. He simply hasn’t been found yet.

She steps back, withdraws from the dog scene, suddenly feeling as though her life depends upon this detachment. The intensity of what has happened swallows her while her mind, still needing to know, takes in voices. There is shouting - a name, a direction, an order - and she longs to hear someone yell, cut!—to end the scene.
She reaches to the ground, uproots a boulder, and smashes it against a tree trunk. But the sound, compared to the one in her mind, is but a whisper. She faces the sky. The trees form a tent to her view and her eyes search for an open space. She finds a small opening through the trees.

'God, why are you putting me through this? Why? I'll be a better mom, I promise you, I will.' She closed her eyes, chants, 'I will, I will, I will be better. I'll be so much better. Please don't take him from me.' Warm tears push through her face as she snaps out of prayer and moves on.

Change the subject, keep going. Don’t quit. Don’t’ stop. Think. To think, just think, Serena. Stay focused, stay alert, it’s what makes the difference. What was notable about Roth? Fucking bastard of a being. What was he wearing? What did he talk about?

The questions jam her mind, push against her throbbing skull. She struggles to concentrate, on everything and on one thing only. But it is his face…the brown eyes, the long-eyelashes, and the modest smile that will not leave her, will not leave her, will not leave her. Her mind beats forward with her steps.

The snowy air, once invigorating, is now stifling. She clears her throat until a single cough turns spastic and she cannot stop hacking. She coughs and cries until it seems that a creature is worming through her throat. She is suddenly nauseous, can barely breathe. She stumbles ahead and falls. The creature must come out and it does - vomit - a demon spilling out of her, staining the white ground as it dribbles over her chin. On her knees, she shouts his name.

“Joshua!”—and again, “Joshua!” She stands, struggles to balance as she repeats the name, “Joshua…Mom, I’m here…I’m sorry!” She cries out his name and she is dizzy and wet and the snow is an icy pillow that she collapses into.

It is dark. For a moment, she is free.

* * *

It is after nine o’clock when she shudders to the warm sensation, a wet rub on her face. A tongue? A dog’s? Her eyes snap open and her heart trembles as she shuffles back on her elbows, remembering what should have been a bad dream.

“Mrs. Davis,” a policeman says, wasting no time to wrap her in a blanket, “we have a lead. Your son’s snowboard was found in one of the tents. The good news is that we haven’t found any signs of violence or force. The surrounding footprints indicate no resistance. The bad news is…though we can’t be one hundred percent sure at this time…we believe that your son was coerced to leave.”

“Coerced?” With her thumb, she wipes dried vomit from her chin and stands.

Together, they walk, her blanket skimming the ground, the dog leading the way. “You mean my son was bullied to leave?” The staring up at him, Josh is mesmerized by the man’s height, it seems…

“Well, he may not have been intimidated to leave. But we think that this man came up with a strong enough reason for Josh to leave with him.”

“That’s impossible. He knows better.” Her breath tastes sour, of rotten eggs, “We’ve educated him, both of us, and the school, on strangers, on what to do when—”

“You wouldn’t believe how cunning the abductor can be in these situations, Mrs. Davis. We see it all the time, even with bright kids.”

Strong enough reason. What would be a strong enough reason for Josh to defy everything he knows, everything he’s been taught about—

She gasps, momentarily paralyzed by a revelation, prompted by the sight of…

It is Doug, walking toward her, his wrist taped up.

“For his dad! For the care of this father! That’s it!” she cries. “I think Roth made my son believe that, somehow, they were going to help Doug with his injury!”

The policeman’s eyes widen as he hastens his strut. “Now that's what I call a lead, young lady. Let’s go fill Detective Hearns in.”


Four 8:37 p.m

The escape was easier than he thought. Unwatched, his Subaru Outback glided onto route 142 with ease, heading straight for the charming town of Bethlehem. Who would suspect the pathetic bible belt? Certainly not one of the Hasidic Jews roaming the streets of the hideous town. And besides, the disguise would work out perfectly, especially the absurd beard. He'd fit right in with the freaks. Hell, maybe he'd even be inclined to convert. Not likely, he chuckles to himself, chewing on a toothpick.

The windshield wipers are frosted with ice. The snow flecks the glass with speed, as though blown in by a machine. He presses the gas pedal harder, despite the road's ice. He has no choice. The police, he knows, have already begun to invade the major highways in search of the boy.

“Can you just tell me where we’re going?” the boy asks through tears, his voice strained as he wiggles beneath a tight wrap of gauze bandage.

“I told you we’ll be there in about twenty five minutes. Should have been fifteen but this weather’s miserable.” He lets up on the gas, flicks the heat on higher. “Have I mentioned that I had a son once? Looked just like you, you know.”
The boy presses his eyes shut for a moment. He does not respond.

“Don’t ever get married.”

“Where’s your son?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“Across the country with my lovely ex-wife.” He squeezes the steering wheel and leans forward in concentration.

“You got divorced?”

He flicks him a glance. “You know about divorce, eh?”

“A kid in my class lives only with his dad…because his dad got to keep him. Your son stays with his mom?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” An ice patch sends the vehicle into a fish-tail skid. Assertively, he rolls the steering wheel in the opposite direction, gaining balance on the road again. “Sorry about that.”

“What’s your son’s name?”

He rubs the stubble of hair beneath his nose. “Steven, named after his old man.”

“Is my dad's arm going to be alright?”

By now, chunks of ice encrust his wipers, making the view impossible. He shoots a look behind him and yanks the wheel to the right for a quick pull-over. “Don’t even think about moving,” he warns, cranking up the defrosters before pushing himself out of the driver’s side.

A waft of cold air attacks the car’s interior as he turns to say, “Oops, I forgot…you’re taped up and belted in. And…to answer your question…it's just a wrist injury. He'll be fine.”

Gently, he pushes the door so that it remains open a crack and scurries to the vehicle’s side. There, he bends over the hood, reaches for the driver-side wiper, and unfolds it so that the arm protrudes upward. With a gloved hand, he swipes the first layer of snow from the blade, noting the entrapped chunks of ice within. He bends the wiper’s arm back and begins plucking it against the glass in attempt to dislodge the ice.

For the most part, he is successful. But a stubborn piece clings and, being the kind of man to perfect things, he bangs the blade one last time then uses his arm to rub away the slushy mess. Now, through the glass, he can see the boy better, though his image appears blurred, as though he is underwater.

A thought jabs him then. The boy’s perception of him is also skewed. He is supposed to be Steven Roth, the cool snow board instructor offering a night lesson. But this? He vows to help Josh understand how adult decisions, like choosing which trails are the most fun to ski down, can be a matter vof perception. He will remind him of the road less traveled, of how the best path to take is, sometimes, not the most popular.

Strong adults like him are supposed to know what to do when it comes to unfamiliar territory. And so, it made perfect sense to grab the first aid kit together, two sets of hands always better than one. He had anticipated the struggle to the car but the gag had changed things. No use screaming when nobody can hear you, right?
Sure, Gloria’s ‘gag’ was of a different nature, a more manipulative approach to controlling his boy—the lies, the courtroom drama, the final move across the country—but her abduction was far more sinister than this! She lied, betrayed him.

Nothing can top off her sins, he thinks, shooting a glance to Josh. For a moment, in seeing the boy's beautiful eyes beneath his helmet, he is overcome by the notion that two wrongs don’t make a right. But then the face of his ex invades his mind, a smoking devil. She is leaning back, cackling, and her poison floats from her nostrils in wispy tendrils. The image burns his spot of empathy. Two wrongs may not make a right, he decides, but the second one sure does ease the pain of the first.

It is his final thought before terror faces him; the careening vehicle, closer, black, metal. The devil wins. Pain. Lights out.

* * *
 
Five - 10:13 p.m

It is decided that it’s best for the parents to stay rooted at the ‘point of abduction’ in the event that Josh is able to contact his parents. With the roads being treacherous, an unnecessary accident would only complicate matters and such disasters are actually more common than one thinks. McKenzie’s argument had needed some persuasion, with Doug nearly pushing him out of the way in a combative protest. He would bring his son back on his own terms. Serena had managed to convince him otherwise.

“Doug, he’s right. There’s no use in both of us getting hurt in the process of saving Josh.”

Hearing his son’s name, it seemed then, had quelled Doug’s anxiety and, frozen to the word, he had released his grip on McKenzie. “Guess you’re right.”

Now, his eyes focus strangely on the scatter rug below the quilted bed. The stare appears sedated, almost possessed, unlike his rash gestures—the biting of a thumbnail, the compulsive study of a police report that he tears through with a solitary right hand. The left one—wounded, guilty—curls inward at his lap, a shamed dog.

“Why didn’t you take him in with you?” The blame has a mind of its own, unfurling like fire on paper.

His head follows the heat in a motion so slow, it is nearly haunted. “My fucking wrist snapped, Serena.”

She flicks a glance at the doorway, speaks to its back, “Your wrist snapped. And you couldn’t possibly take care of yourself and someone else.” She closes her eyes, feels the wrong of her words.

“We were together when it happened for Christ’s sake,” he says sharply.

She angles herself to face him, to make sense of what has already been said before. “So you were at the bottom of the mountain at this point?”

“Yes. We had just reached the bottom of the mountain when I slid the wrong way. I would have fallen backwards but I overcompensated…” he rubs the back of his head as though shaking wet hair dry, “and that’s when I fell forward on the heel of my hand.”

“What did Josh do after you fell?”

“He was concerned, he…” his thoughts trail off as he squeezes his face shut. Serena watches him remember.


“Dad! Are you alright?” Josh slides to his father’s side, his snowboard angled perfectly for a quick stop.

Instinctively, Doug clutches his wrist and attempts, unsuccessfully, to hide the pain.

“You hurt your hand, Daddy?”

He winces, kneeling in the snow, levering himself up with the right hand, “I think I just fell the wrong way…” and glances back at a speedy Roth who flies in from behind.

“Oh geez. I think it’s broken pal. You fell on your hands didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he says back, removing a glove, “I shouldn’t have leaned over so much.”

“If I were you, Doug, I would have it wrapped. It takes no more than three minutes, right near the front desk. Chloe’s used to dealing with these injuries.”

Doug reflects on the advice for a moment, advice from an expert. Too old to be macho, he trusts him, does not care to compete.

“Dad, you have to get it wrapped up,” Josh confirms with good reason.

He scratches his head, “Alright, I guess you guys have a point. I’ll…I’ll be…” he shoots a look to the lodge, “be back in a few minutes.”

“Tell you what,” Roth instructs, “we’ll shoot down for one last ride and be here when you get back.”

“Point Sara again?” Doug asks.

Josh, sensing the ambivalence in his son’s voice, the slight change in tone, changes his tune. “Do you want me to come in with you, Dad?”

“Naw, I’ll be fine. Go enjoy one last run. Me and my bum hand will meet you at the bottom.”

Roth chuckles, “Seriously, man, it happens all the time. We’ll see you in, say….ten?”

“Sounds good.”

Doug fumbles singlehandedly with his bindings before stepping out of his snowboard and carrying it away like a notebook. On his way to the lodge, he looks back at his son. Parallel to Roth, he is chatting animatedly, using a gloved hand to demonstrate a swooping motion. He wants to conquer the small jump at the end of Point Sara. A wave of fear causes Doug to stop in his tracks, to think this through more. He pauses…

But the pain in his wrist jabs his hand like a poking knife, reminding him of two things: Number one, it’s a good thing he hadn’t broken an arm or leg; and number two—it’s a good thing it hadn’t been Josh.

He walks away, relieved to be the one in pain.


Serena sees him awaken from the memory in an outburst that sounds primitive, an animal sick and howling.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” she approaches him and sits down, cradling his head in her chest. “I shouldn’t have resorted to blame.” Her tears drizzle his hair. “We’re gonna’ do this, Doug. Our baby is going to come back to us.”

Rebecca wheeling him away at the hospital. She wishes that she had said no. A scene from his birth floats into her mind.

“He will be rescued, Doug, he has to be. He’ll bring us back,” she nods up to the ceiling beneath heaven. “Now let’s go get him.”

10: 19 p.m

They shake off emotion, stand up and say in unison, “Outside.”

“Grab your coat,” Doug adds. “Let’s just be present out there. Be visible. And search in the woods some more. You hear it all the time, Ser, kids being found when they’re close by. Remember that kid from Quincy, parents thought he was gone, but he had hopped in with a hitchhiker to go to a convenience store.”

“Good, that’s good, Doug. We can’t out-rule that he could be closer than we think, closer than anyone would expect. Let’s bundle up, though.”

“Where are my shoes, I mean boots, I’ll need boots, right?” He finger-combs the messy hair topping his head.

“Definitely. Here, they’re right by the door.” Unnecessarily, she points them out and watches Doug bend over them. He stuffs his socked feet into them with remarkable swiftness, despite the limp companion. Then he pauses at the doorway and offers Serena a final thought.

“We’re going to find him,” he says.

“We will find him,” she says, resurrected by Doug’s confidence. Her husband is back, prepared for the fight. It is not his fault that this has happened to their child. A wave of adrenaline shoots through her, a fluttery sensation that reminds her of the first time she fell in love with Doug. She scoops her keys off of the end table and follows her husband out.


10:22 p.m.

The door crunches shut while another couple, leaving their own neighboring room, makes eye contact. The burden of Serena and Doug’s problem is too great to ignore. It is also too great to articulate—to find the right words to empathize with the unimaginable. For a moment, the couple remains tangled in the conflict. Finally, unwilling to bear the silence any longer, the man speaks up.

“I’m…I’m sorry about what’s happened. We heard….I mean it’s on the news and everything…is, is there anything we can do?—I’m a parent as well, I can just imagine what this must be like and—”

Serena saves him. “Thank you for asking. Right now we need to make things happen and be present for our child. Thank you for thinking of us, though,” she adds, feeling as though she should give them more, yet deciding against it. Time is not on their side.

Doug shadows the feeling. “Yes, we have to keep moving. But thank you.”

“Oh, of course! We’re sorry!” the woman chimes in, embarrassed.

“Oh no, don’t be,” Doug says. “Have you seen the news clip, the picture of our son?”

“Y-yes,” the couple says in unison.

In motion, Serena calls back, “Please stay posted on the news. And call the news emergency line if you can help us in any way. Any piece of information is a huge help.”

10:23 p.m.

Chloe is tapping away at her keyboard, wearing her holiday attire and Serena is struck by the memory of their first confrontation, hours ago, over Doug’s wrist. If only she had known what was to come.

To the bustling sound of Serena and Doug, she looks up from her work, offers a stern string of information.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Davis. I’ve notified Chief McKenzie to contact me via e-mail, cell phone, whatever’s easiest, if anything comes up. In addition to that, I’ve organized a team, basically our Ski Patrol,” she says with her hands, “to comb the slopes through the night. They’ll be working 24-7. We’re going to do everything in our power to find your boy.”

Chloe cares. To this revelation, Serena’s eyes water. “My son will be rescued, Chloe. Thank you for all you’re doing.”

Chloe smiles weakly, her face the blotchy pink of doubt. Serena cannot bear the face. She tugs at Doug’s arm. “Let’s hurry.”

10:27 p.m

Being inside of the hot chocolate tent is excruciating. There are rows of picnic tables, the first of which is cluttered with stained hot chocolate cups. Drawn to them, she and Doug move closer, each of them picking one up to inspect, to smell. They lock eyes. A mutual thought hangs frozen between them...one of these cups could have been Joshua’s.

“Oh God.” Doug says, sitting down, cupping his mouth, the cup falling softly to the ground.

She closes her eyes, palms his knee. “I can picture him in here, tearing open the packet, feeling so— ” She begins to collapse before composing herself again, “so independent, you know. That’s what we all loved about this sport, the—”

“The freedom,” Doug answers. “Let’s get on the lift and check out the expert trails again. This is a waste of time.”

“Alright,” she wipes her face clean with her glove.

They walk out together and, instinctively, face the mountains, stare at a scene once beautiful. Until a shuffling sound, boots on snow, jars them from the trance and Serena follows the sound. A bulk of man is walking steadily toward them in the distance. She’s about to breathe the man’s name when Doug does it for her.

“McKenzie.”

There are a series of hypnotic steps and, before long, the three of them settle logically, points of a triangle, atop the snow.

“Serena, Doug,” he says with quick nod to both, “I have some news that I want to share with you in person.”

The surrounding air suffocates.

“There was an accident on Route 302. Roth was the driver...”

Existence spins away.

“Your son, Joshua, was in the passenger seat.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t…

“And he’s going to be just fine. He’s at Lincoln Medical Center right now, but it appears he’s just been banged up a bit.”

A shriek, the sucking in of air, and a collapsing embrace fills the space between them.

"Roth was hit by a car. He was outside of the car."

There are no words.

Joshua has been rescued.



 
Six
11:03 p.m.

The hospital parking lot asserts itself with moving headlights, a parked ambulance at the front entrance, and the dark presence of an accident that never should have happened. Serena’s mind moves faster than her car. She leans over the steering wheel, squints to the dark, and searches. Doug points out appropriate signs, worries about her driving.

“Careful honey. You almost drove over the curb.”

“It’ll live,” she says, banging a sharp left into the first aisle of cars. An open spot sticks out in the row like the missing tooth of a child’s smile. She zooms toward it. “What did McKenzie say again about the ambulance report?”

“He said that Josh was lucky to be in the passenger seat. The impact of the hit to the driver’s side caused his head to hit the window. Miraculously…that’s the word he used…he still had his helmet on so he saved himself a brain injury. Also, the snowy roads actually helped him. The driver of the other car didn’t gain a lot of speed...he just fishtailed and more or less bumped right into Roth, who was outside of the car, at his hood.”

He begins to choke up, “Josh fell forward into the perfect crevice of the passenger seat…he was still coherent and everything. You were right, Ser, God rescued him.” From his window, his eyes measure the parking spot. Given the careless parking job of the monster SUV beside them, the space is tight.

“You sure you want to chance this one, Serena?”

Without answering, she cuts the wheel, measures precisely, and glides in before killing the engine. “I just want to see him…I can’t deal with all of the insurance crap, Doug. Can you check us in with your card?”

“They’ll make an exception for this,” Doug says with a sense of optimism that she does not have.

“I doubt it.”

Without ample room to open the doors, she and Doug maneuver themselves awkwardly from the vehicle, pushing the doors shut.

They scurry ahead to a revolving set of doors, eager to enter, despite the ER’s taboo, and circulate to the waiting room. Faces greet them immediately, tired faces, wrinkled faces, wanting faces. Serena shoots them a modest nod of apology—perhaps they are not as lucky as she—then heads to the ‘check-in’ window, the block-lettered sign of which demands that insurance cards be ready. Doug is beside her but his body language speaks of compromise. Serena takes over.

“Hi. My son was brought in after a car accident, after being abducted. I will need to see him now. We carry solid insurance…” she gestures to Doug, “my husband has the card.”

“It will just take a moment, ma’am. You’ll need to wait here. We just got slammed.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t wait,” she says in motion, the useless voice fading like dissolving fireworks in the sky.

Serena makes herself blend into new voices; urgent voices, voices that contain sharp edges and critical direction. She hears blood pressure readings, EMT reports, and technical medical language. They remind her of medical shows, of movies.

A pale faced man is being wheeled in on a stretcher, his body impossibly frail and still. His glassy eyes seem to study the ceiling as he speeds by, his tiny wrist hangs limp. He is there and gone. She moves on, power walks, and the energy, the sheer chaos of the hallway, seems to blur. Her mind focuses only on Josh.

She notes the sign, PEDIATRICS, and her heart back flips. He is there.

She confidently pushes through a double set of doors and heads for the triage area. Instinctively, she seems to know where it is located and, with equal intuition, a nurse looks up. Her smile is inviting, unlike that of the woman at the waiting room. Rebecca. “May I help you?”

“Hi. Serena Davis,” she says in a huff. “My son Josh was taken in by ambulance after being—”

“Oh my gosh, yes!—he’s here,” she says, snapping up. “What a brave little man you have. Right this way… I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Thank you,” she says, following the nurse, one step closer to Josh. Along the hallway, she passes a poster, smiley faces with feelings, followed by a larger one on CPR. They keep walking, passing an open room with a mother, an infant inside, then two more closed doors, and finally—

“He’s right here, 215...” the nurse gestures.

The door is open. Josh is there, laying flat, his hands folded atop his chest, his head propped up on pillows. His eyes widen instantly to Serena, to his mother.

She carries herself to him and the weight of the passing hours seems to float away. They embrace. She is flooded by sobs and she can see him as a newborn again, the pink face, the small nose, in her arms, at the hospital bed, and then being wheeled away. She is swept up in the moment, in the feeling of his nine year old body conforming to her taller one. His body feels solid to her thinness. She stretches her arms long to look at him, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, honey.”

“Where’s Daddy?” he asks, his bottom lip quivering as though to hold back tears.

“He’ll be right here, honey. He was just checking in.”

“Is his wrist okay?”

His care forces forth more tears. “His wrist is going to be just fine.”

“Can we go home now?”

She is about to answer when Doug enters. There is a fraction of a second when he stares to his son, as though in disbelief, and then, in an outburst of tears, he rushes to him. They hold each other for awhile and the nurse begins to tear up, her clipboard in her hand. Serena reads her nametag. Elaine.

Elaine quietly places a box of tissues on Joshua’s bed for all of them.

Doug awakens from the embrace, his face pink. “I’m so sorry, Josh…I’m so sorry I let this happen to you. You’re okay now, right? Are you okay?” He sweeps a finger across Josh’s cheek.

“Dad—Mr. Roth was driving soooo fast in the snow! He should have gotten’ a ticket! Then he got hit by a car that swerved into him…” he goes on, creating hand motions as dramatic as the story. “ I thought I was going to be blind when I shot forward in the car!”

Doug and Serena exchange a knowing look. Kids don’t think things through the way we do. They live in the moment and they are resilient. Joshua will be okay. But will they be? Will they ever be the same?

A doctor enters, interrupting her thoughts. “Hello folks, Dr. Asaan,” he reports, extending a hand shake to Doug, to Serena.

They nod to him, greet him right away. "Hello."

“You’ve got quite a champion here,” he says, rubbing Josh’s knee.

“We sure do,” she says, facing Josh.

“How…I mean have you completed any tests?” Doug asks.

“This guy’s good to go. We ran a full battery, vision, hearing, internal...” He knocks on Josh’s head, jokes, “You sure this isn’t made of steel?”

Josh smiles. “I had my helmet on.”

“Aahhh…that’s right, you did. Good man.” He turns to Doug again. “He does have a mild laceration to his shoulder, let me show you,” he says, sliding Josh’s johnnie to one side, exposing the skin.

Serena and Doug both move closer to see. There is a small cut in the center of a swollen bump, nothing worse than a football bruise.

“Treat this with an antibiotic, Neosporin, or any of the over-the-counter creams will do.”

Serena asks, “He’s…he’s really going to be o.k?”

Again, Dr. Asaan jokes, faces Josh. “Can you do this?” He flaps his arms like a chicken. “How about this?” He taps his head while standing on one foot.

Josh giggles.

“I think he’s good to go.”

Dr Asaan, she decides, is insensitive, his glib antics a mask to the darker happenings that he must face every day. Perhaps it is better to act this way, she thinks, forgiving him already. She will endure all of his jokes, given the positive outcome of the situation. But just as they are ready to collect their things, Dr. Asaan surprises her with a more serious tone.

“Mom, I just need to chat with you in the hallway for a minute.” He winks to Josh, “Medical paperwork is kind of like homework that you don’t want to do but you have to.”

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll stay here,” Doug says, holding his son’s fingers.

They exit and Dr. Asaan gently shuts the door.

The doctor, small and fit, wastes no time. “A few things. One...when you leave here, you’ll notice that reporters have been hanging outside of the ER waiting for you. The media can be a double-edged sword. You and your husband will need to decide how you want to handle them. From what I have experienced, you’re better off giving them a little, then walking away with a polite ‘thank you very much’.

She touches her forehead. “Oh, gosh. I didn’t even think of that. But, you know what. I just feel so blessed that this thing is over with, I don’t mind sharing the happy ending with the news.”

“Perfect.” His thoughts move forward. He is about to relay the last of 'a few things' when a pudgy nurse waddles into the vicinity with speed that does not seem to conform to the rest of her. Her forehead is shiny.

“Dr Asaan…we have a critical in 203.”

“Shelley...” he says, backing up, “send Detective Hearns in to speak with Mrs. Davis about the news, please. She's been waiting.”

Inside of her chest, Serena feels the tap dance that has become rudely familiar. "What's going on?

Shelley offers Serena the one minute signal with an index finger, activates her beeper, and whispers, "A detective hassled us earlier about speaking to you guys. We put her off. She'll be here in just a minute."

As though she had been pasted to the Pediatric doorway, Detective Hearns appears almost immediately. She is wearing a long navy trenchcoat and black leather boots. In seeing her, Serena is reminded of a female superhero cartoon.

“First of all, congratulations in getting your boy back,” the detective says, leaning in close, touching Serena's arm.

“Thank you for all that you’ve done to bring him back to me.” Serena says back, wiping the damp beneath her eyes.

“We thought you should know,” Hearns says sternly, “that Roth is still alive. He was taken by life flight from the accident, revived through resuscitation," she adds, palming her chest unnecessarily, "he’s fighting for his life in intensive care right now." She locks her fingers, "I know this isn't easy to hear, Mrs. Davis...but I have more news to share with you on Roth's back story.”

In hearing his name--the devil's--a toxic virus seems to shoot through her veins. Her body hurts. She begins to sweat.

“Excuse me. I just need to sit down,” she says, searching the white walls for a place to process the dark.