He had followed the path for nearly ten minutes, down the little hill, into a woodier area. There were only two possible paths leading from the campsite; he'd chosen the one that led into the denser patch, figuring if she'd wanted privacy, that's the one she'd select. He glanced at his watch, the digital waterproof one she'd given him for his birthday. In the nine minutes and fifteen seconds he'd been walking, he had decided that she must have twisted an ankle, or hurt a leg. He was surprised that she had ventured so far away, but thought it possible she had turned the wrong way after her bathroom break, or otherwise had just wanted to explore. He had arbitrarily decided that he should turn back after exactly ten minutes, for his dad could wake up at any time, and if he hadn't found her within ten minutes, he'd obviously screwed up anyway. He had forty-five seconds to go. He charged ahead.

With eight seconds left in his schedule, he noted the sharp bend in the path, and decided to break his own rule and go slightly further. He'd turn around as soon as he investigated the concentrated, thick patch of trees just beyond.

He cleared the bend, his eyes scanning the vicinity.

There.

A bit of movement, out of the corner of his eye. Behind the tree, about ten yards off the beaten track. A bare foot.

He sprinted towards it.

During the handful of his father's work-related phone calls on which he'd had the temerity to eavesdrop, he had overheard vivid descriptions of how various victims had been found – of the viciousness, the violence. But nothing could have prepared him for this sight.

She was lying there in a ball, moaning and trembling. Her eyes were clenched shut, and her naked stomach was convulsing uncontrollably, her bruised chest area, covered scantily by a torn bra, heaving with it. The bra strap clung tightly to her savagely beaten back, which had scarcely a square inch of skin remaining, some blood still unclotted and streaking down in several jagged lines, an open invitation to countless insects and microbes.

He suddenly had a mental image of the woman giving birth in that video that had been part of sex-ed class. She had screamed and pleaded and thrashed, clutching her belly, yelling bloody murder. He had been transfixed by the video – he couldn't process that his own mother might have ever experienced anything resembling this sort of agony. He'd learned in that class that labor was the worst pain a person could experience, and seeing that video, he'd completely believed it. But at this moment, witnessing her lying here like this, he knew he'd been dead wrong.

He tentatively approached her form, taking in her state of semi-nudity. He had been fantasizing about her for so long, and yet, in a heartbeat, he would have traded every last one of those reveries to not have to see her like this now. For in the millisecond it had taken for his eyes to take in this sight, he had come to learn that not all nudity was arousing. Sometimes, in fact, it was heartbreaking. There was nothing sexual, for example, about the tops of her breasts – thankfully, at least partially covered by what was once a lacy black bra – bleeding and bruised. And the cleavage, damp with perspiration and blood, made more ample by her painful position on her side, was hardly the tantalizing, forbidden fruit that it had been just yesterday, when she'd donned a bikini top to go wading in the stream, and he'd nearly wet his shorts.

He was disgusted with himself for ever having had those thoughts.

At least she's wearing pants.

He hesitated. He was not sure what to actually do. Should he run back to his dad for help? Should he try to help her himself? Should he touch her? Talk to her? What was the protocol? He froze for a second, panicked. He should at least take the gag out, he reasoned. Maybe she could then tell him what to do.

Gingerly, he got onto his knees in back of her, and reached behind her head to untie the dirty bandana. Her hair, which was just long enough to normally cover the back of her neck, was clumped together in several sticky locks, exposing it. As he worked to undo the double knot, his fingers briefly and barely grazed her skin, which was shockingly cold to the touch. She flinched at the contact, letting out a panicked whimper through her gag. Abruptly, he pulled away, distressed that he might have hurt her.

Say something to her! Tell her it's ok! Tell her you're sorry!

He had sensed as soon as he arrived that he should be talking to her throughout this procedure, but he didn't know what to say. Should he tell her she was going to be okay? In the movies, they always said stuff like, Hang on! You're gonna be okay! But what if she wasn't going to be okay? Was it okay to lie to her?

She might be scared of you.

He recoiled, profoundly upset by this prospect – that she, his favorite person, a cop, no less, could be reduced to being afraid of him – him! – a scrawny, bookish twelve-year-old who was too timid to ask Phoebe Wimpmueller to sit next to him at lunch. On the other hand, he considered, she had no reason not to be scared of him; he hadn't identified himself, after all, and she was certainly in no state to figure it out on her own. And this much he'd learned from being the son of an SVU detective – victims were scared of everything.

He sat back on his heels, unsure how to proceed. He had an overwhelming urge to flee to his dad, to let him take over. This was too much for him. He didn't know what he was doing. His eyes again took in the full sight of her, the surrealism of seeing her like this. And then they fell upon her face – the beautiful, angelic features twisted into an expression of unmitigated suffering.

And just like that, his decision was made: if he did nothing else for her, he would free her of the gag. He owed it to her to summon enough courage to complete this one small act of mercy.

Taking a deep breath, he poised his fingers to continue. Her right cheek was scraping back and forth along the ground, in tempo with her pain, and he had to move in sync with her so as not to lose his grip on the knot. She no longer appeared to fear him; her movements seemed purely to be involuntary reactions to her physical pain, rather than emotional responses to being touched. A fact for which he was thankful – for he still couldn't bring himself to utter a word to her.

Slowly, because he wasn't sure what kind of touching might hurt her, and because he'd learned his lesson about scaring her, he pulled the bandana away, only to expose the large cloth protruding from her mouth, which he expected her to now spit out. When she didn't, he realized that she was too weak even for this slight motion, and he extended a shaky hand towards her face to gently remove it. It was soaked in blood.

Her breaths now came in hyperventilated gulps, as her body registered a new source of air. The moans turned into louder, more enunciated grunts. He noticed that she was sweating, particularly around her forehead, near the hairline, even though her skin was so, so cold.

Presently, she opened her eyes, squinting at him, her gaze glassy and unfocused. He wasn't sure if she even recognized him. She started to speak, her voice weak and desperate, a voice he didn't recognize as belonging to the assertive woman he'd come to worship.

"D-Dickie… " A pause, as she sucked in another wheezy breath, gathering just enough strength to whisper two more tiny words, "help me… please…"

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The gag was gone. Someone had removed it. Was she dreaming again? No, it really was gone. She tried to move, but was thoroughly winded when the weight of her torso further crushed what remained of the bone in her upper arm. She gasped, trying to recover.

When she was sure she had endured the worst of it, she took in several more breaths, trying to reassess.

She was still shivering.

She was still bound.

She was still helpless.

She let out a huff of pain, grateful for the small gift of unhindered breathing. Had she hallucinated that someone had been here? She contemplated this. It was possible; she'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for a number of hours now.

But no, it had to have been real. The key lay in the gag, or lack thereof. She clung to this small fact. If the gag was gone, it meant her situation had changed. She wasn't sure how, but she knew one thing: there was hope.

She tried to think, to search her mind for any fragment of a memory of that awful rag having been pulled out. Had she even been awake for it? Who had been here?

She struggled to gain some coherence to her thoughts.

Footsteps approaching. Fingers on the back of the neck. He was touching her.

She started at the recollection. But wait – these had been gentle, soft hands, pulling out the rag. Hands that weren't going to hurt her. A child's.

She had begged the child for help.

Had the child responded? Had he said anything? Why had he left her?

All at once, the memory was upon her. A child. Dickie. Yes – it had been Dickie! And if Dickie had left her, it could only be because he was getting his father.

She exhaled, the pain bearable for the first time in hours. Dickie's father would help her.