James pressed a button on his camera, and they watched Finn on the small screen, jumping and yelling in his panda suit, bouncing in the leaves. Chuckles appeared and watched, too. Sandra put a hand on James’s shoulder and squeezed.

James turned off the camera and went through Sandra’s questions, one by one. He knew every answer.

The buzzer was broken. Ana knocked loudly. No one came to the door. She stood on the porch, glancing at the stained seats from the car, wondered if there was a key hidden inside one of the tears. Then she tried the handle of the door, and with a turn, it opened.

The shoes remained in their jumble. Today the hallway smelled of vinegar. She moved up the staircase, hand on the loose rail. She could hear the explosions, the sound of gunfire and battle. She knocked.

“Come in!” a voice called. Ana opened the door. Charlie’s roommate was on the couch, console in hand, thumbs flying. Charlie sat next to him, attached by a cord to his own plastic box. He glanced at her once, blankly, then again with recognition. Startled, he dropped the box.

“Ana!” He stood.

“No! Chuck! Keep going!” shouted Russell, grabbing for Charlie’s box, trying to work two of them, one in each hand.

“What are you doing here? I mean, it’s fine, it’s great—”

“I wanted to give you something,” said Ana.

“NOOOO!” Russell shouted. “NOOOO!” His forehead was slick with sweat.

“Okay, this is—the kitchen’s a mess—” said Charlie.

“Should we go to your room?” He opened his eyes wide, nodded. Ana followed him down a corridor.

“Sit down,” he said. The bed, tidily made, filled almost the entire room, so Ana sat on the edge of it. A white curtain covered the window. Charlie grabbed a wadded T-shirt and tossed it into the old armoire.

“You don’t have much stuff,” said Ana.

“Really? I always feel like I have too much.”

He stood in front of her and then sat down. They were shoulder to shoulder, as if sitting on a bus. Ana reached into her purse and pulled out a brown paper bag.

“Here,” she said. Charlie removed a black notebook. He flipped through its empty lined pages.

“Thank you. I’m not sure—what made you—”

“I saw it. I don’t think you should get a BlackBerry. I think this is better.”

Charlie laughed. “A one-woman campaign against technology.”

“It’s also a bribe,” said Ana. “I might be going away for a little while. I’m not sure. I want you to take care of my mother. Will you do that for me? Will you just keep an eye on her until I get back?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m always looking out for her, Ana. Even if you didn’t ask me, I would.” He tried to catch her eye, but she was gazing at the curtain. “Where are you going?”

Ana saw upon the white canvas of the curtain faint lines like rivers, crossing and cutting.

“I don’t know,” she said. She could feel Charlie’s arm near hers, the fraction of space between them. She could imagine her hands on his neck, the roughness of his jaw. She could feel it without doing it, even the aftershocks, the mess. And then she thought: No, it’s not true: In fact, you don’t know how this will turn out. She had always tried so hard to anticipate every step before it landed, but now she didn’t even know who would be in her home, or where that home would be. And that thought set her freight-free.

Ana stood.

“Thank you,” she said, turning for the door.

“Ana, wait—” But she was gone, through the battle and the electronic bloodshed, past the man on the couch who was wailing now as if he were injured.

Outside, she moved fast through the trick-or-treaters. The sounds of fireworks had begun, explosions in the distance, some nearby, but untraceable, popping from alleys and behind cars. The sky, far away, was streaked hot red.

James knew Finn’s height, his weight, the color of his socks. He repeated these things.

Ana turned onto their block. She watched a man and woman walking quickly, knocking on one door and the next, like urgent trick-or-treaters without a child. Then she saw the crowd on the sidewalk in front of the house, James in the center. She sped up and then slowed down. Should she rush toward this dark thing in front of her? Yes, she decided. Finally, yes, and she broke into a jog.

Ana was next to James. He looked at her blurrily.

“You’re the mother?” asked Sandra.

“What?” asked Ana.

“Yes. Basically,” interrupted James. “Finn is—I can’t find him.”

Ana blinked, took in this information. “When—”

“About forty-five minutes ago. I don’t know. An hour. They’re looking.”

“Who? Who are these people?” asked Ana.

“Neighbors, I guess,” said James.

Ana went inside the living room and saw a man in construction overalls on the phone. Chuckles looked even browner against the white furniture. He held out a hand. “Mario Pereira,” he said. His hand was gentle in Ana’s. “Pleased to meet you. My buddy’s a cop. They’re on their way.”

“Cop,” Ana repeated, letting the blunt magnitude of the word settle. “When are they coming? Did you look everywhere?” But Mario had turned, was speaking into the Bluetooth, passing on the color of Finn’s boots.

James followed Ana as she moved through the house, bending to peer below tables, into cupboards.

“He’s probably hiding in the basement,” she said, trying to coax the words out normally.

“People are looking,” said James. He corrected himself: “We have looked.”

Outside the kitchen, the porch lights flooded the yard. Ana and James saw it as if for the first time. The workers had finished. The limestone pieces fit together like the jagged countries on a map. The knee-high grasses around the perimeter swayed.

But there were two people in the backyard, strangers, a young couple in their twenties.

Ana opened the French doors.

The girl, wearing a loosely knit hat topped by a large pink flower, rushed to Ana, grabbed her hand.

“We’ll find him, don’t worry,” she said. “I’m Erica. That’s David. We rent the apartment next door.”

“Yes,” said Ana. “I’ve seen you. Thank you.” David was shaking James’s hand. James was looking over his shoulder, eyes on the tall grasses swaying.

“We looked in every inch of this yard,” said Erica quietly. “Several times.”

James walked around them, off the limestone and into the garden.

“Dude, he’s not here,” said David. The bored, rock star voice struck James as untrustworthy and he kept moving, pushing apart the grasses, squatting in the shadows. Nothing.

He sprung up and left the two of them, rushing inside. All the doors were open in the house, front, back. A chill had entered the house.

“I’m Sandra Pereira, Mario’s wife.” She extended a hand, and Ana thought quickly: I have shaken too many hands today—but the hand landed, instead, on Ana’s shoulder. The woman’s voice was grave: “The police are here.”

The police were a young man and woman, almost as young as the couple in the backyard. They looked awkward in the white club chairs opposite Ana and James. The woman sat right on the edge, her ponytail swaying.

“When did you last see your son?” asked the male officer.

“He’s not our son. We’re his guardians. His father died.” James was growing angry at this question, the complication in it.

“You adopted him?”

“No, not yet,” said James. Ana absorbed the last word of the sentence. Everything had been decided somehow, when she wasn’t looking.

“His mother’s in the hospital. You can call his social worker if you want,” said Ana.

James blinked at her.

“It doesn’t really matter right now. The main thing is, we need to find him,” he said.

Ana was scrolling through her cell phone for the number of Ann Silvan.

“Here’s the social worker’s number.” She handed the phone to the woman cop.