She sits at the kitchen table, staring at her hands. She's already shredded a stack of paper napkins and has moved on to twisting and untwisting a cloth towel. He paces the floor, because simply keeping his hands busy is not enough for him.

He's seen a lot of parents of missing children over the years. They all say the same thing. I can't breathe. He never understood it until now. There's a hard knot inside his chest, like a fist squeezing his lungs. It's been there for over an hour, because he hasn't known where his son is for over an hour. He can barely breathe, and he sure as hell can't sit still.

He glances at Maddie, who is silently staring at the towel in her hands. He still cannot understand how this happened.

"Shawn's not supposed to play in the front yard."

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he has spoken. He didn't mean to say it, but she doesn't look up.

"I know."

"So why did you let him?" Like a broken dam, words are flooding out now. He can't stop them.

She still doesn't look up; just wraps the towel tightly around her left hand. "Why don't you just say what you're thinking, Henry?"

"Which is?"

"That this is my fault." Her voice is soft, low. Not angry or argumentative.

"I didn't say that."

"But you're thinking it."

"Maddie, I just want to know why he was in the front yard. He's only supposed to play in the backyard."

"He was in the backyard, Henry." The anger he had expected is finally coming to the surface. "I stepped away from the window for a minute, and when I came back, he was gone. I went to the front because I knew he would be there, and he...he was...gone..."

Henry sighs. "Maddie-"

"It is my fault." There is venom in her voice, but it is directed at herself, not him. "It's my fault...it's my fault..." her voice is tight, lips trembling, eyes watering. "My fault..."

He kneels down by her chair and she sobs into his shoulder for several minutes. He rubs her back soothingly. He is strong for her, and he wonders who will be strong for him, because he cannot take much more of this.

"Henry," she gasps, leaning up and wiping her eyes. "Go."

"What?"

"Go to the station. Find out what's going on."

"Maddie, I can't-"

"Bull. I know you. Rules don't stop you." She glances at the clock on the wall. "It's been over an hour. They should have been able to track down the truck."

"I don't want to leave you alone right now."

"I'll be fine. Go."

He pauses, thinking. "Maybe I don't have to."

He crosses the room and picks up the phone. He's called the DMV to run plate numbers so many times that he knows the number by heart.

"Dave? It's Henry Spencer. I need you to run a partial plate number for me. It's for a white Ford truck-"

"-starting with Charlie Nine Tango?"

"That's the one."

"I just gave that information to your chief five minutes ago."

Henry sighs, pretending to be annoyed. "Well he didn't tell me that. Damn bureaucracy. Do you still have the info? We're kind of in a hurry here."

"Yeah, I heard. Kidnapped child. I've still got it right here..." He hears papers rustling. "We found three white Fords that start with those digits. The closest one to Santa Barbara is registered to a Charles Plummer, address 519 West Maple Street in Lompoc."

"519 West Maple," he repeats. "Thanks, Dave."

"I hope you catch him, Henry."

Henry closes his eyes. "Believe me, I will."

He hangs up the phone and turns to Maddie. She has gotten up and is standing next to him, reading the name and address he jotted down on a piece of scratch paper.

"Charles Plummer," she repeats. She looks up, into his eyes. "I'm going with you."

He shakes his head, not really sure why he is refusing. "You should stay here."

"Why? You've got the address." That feistiness that attracted him to her years ago had morphed into a ferocity neither of them expected after Shawn was born. He can see it in her eyes now. Venom, redirected. Determination.

"Let's go get our son, Henry."

The bad man drives for a long time.

Shawn is waiting, expecting to hear the sirens on his father's police car screaming out from behind them. But they never come. It's getting dark, and he is still jammed into the corner of the floor, as far away from the driver as he can possibly be while still being in the truck. His legs are going numb from being tucked under him. His pants feel wet. He doesn't remember doing that, and he feels ashamed.

Shawn dares to peek up above him. He can see the door handle above his head, and it occurs to him that maybe it would be better to be outside of the truck than inside it. He glances at the bad man, whose eyes are on the road. There is a knife lying on the seat beside him. Shawn hadn't noticed it before. He stares at the knife for a long time before finally tearing his eyes away.

Cautiously, he reaches up, slowly. The tips of his fingers brush the handle, but he can't quite reach high enough to get a grip. He pushes himself up and it's almost in his grasp when a hand grabs his arm and jerks him over, away from the door. Shawn jerks his arm back at the same time the bad man lets go, and he flies backwards, hitting the door with his back. It holds firm.

"It's locked anyway, kid."

Shawn eyes him warily. "I want to go home."

"Shut up."

He feels the truck slowing, turning to the right and going up a slight incline. It's a driveway, and they're pulling into a garage. Shawn's stomach flip-flops again. This is not his house, and now they're stopping, and he needs to get away.

The bad man turns off the engine and opens the door. He slams it shut, leaving Shawn alone for the moment, and goes to pull the heavy garage door shut. Somehow Shawn knows this may be his only chance.

He stands up, grabs the lock and pulls it up. He sees the bad man through the window, still standing by the garage door. He pulls the handle with shaking hands and pushes the door with his foot, and somehow it pops open. He tumbles out, landing hard on the concrete on his hands and knees.

He sees Bad Man's feet coming towards him. Shawn rolls underneath the open door of the truck and scrambles to his feet. There's a door in the wall in front of him and he runs to it. Bad Man has to stop and slam the truck door before he can get around it, and it buys Shawn precious seconds.

The door opens to a backyard, eerily lit in the half-light of dusk. Shawn runs, not knowing where to go but knowing he must not stop for anything. He can hear footsteps and shouts behind him but he does not turn around. He runs through the backyard and into the next yard, dodging toys and bicycles and lawn chairs. Across the next street and through still another yard. A dog barks excitedly, but he keeps running. A stitch forms in his side, and it's hard to breathe, but he cannot stop. He can feel the bad man's breath on his neck. Feel his fingers reaching out to touch him.

He is halfway across another yard before something finally slows him down. It's a chain ladder, hanging down from a tree house sitting in a large oak tree above him. He couldn't see the ladder very well in the near darkness; he nearly crashed into it. Shawn grabs the nearest rung and pulls himself up, never looking down. At the top he throws himself off the ladder onto the solid floor of the tree house. He finally dares to glance down, expecting to see Bad Man coming up the ladder, but no one is there. He pulls the ladder up, rung by rung, until it is all up in the tree house with him. No one can get to him now.

He rolls over onto his back, breathing hard and trembling all over. He will be safe here. This tree house is a fortress, like the ones he and Gus build out of pillows and couch cushions in the living room. Even better, because it is up in the trees where no one can reach it without the ladder. He just has to stay quiet, and still. No one can find him here. His breathing gradually slows until he falls asleep, exhausted.