“Has she done this before?” I asked.
“Never.”
A first-time runner. One who never skipped school. A smart girl, but maybe not the kind with street smarts.
“Does she have a boyfriend or a girlfriend she might be staying with?” At this age, a lot of family arguments were about sex or sexual orientation.
Ms. Taylor shook her head. “I don’t think she’s made a lot of friends here yet.”
“Have you tried calling her?”
“She left her phone behind. And I can’t see who she calls or texts or anything because it has a pass code and I don’t know it.” She paused, looked down at the tattoos on her knuckles. They read BABY DOLL. “I guess she had a fight with my boyfriend just before she left.”
Left her phone. Fight with my boyfriend. My attention sharpened. Had we just gone from runaway to missing person? Or even from runaway to victim? “Were you not at home when this happened?”
“I work swing shift, and Tim—that’s my boyfriend—he works days. I guess they had this … argument while I was at work.”
“So Tim lives with you?”
“Actually, we live with him. We moved here about seven months ago.”
“Have he and Savannah argued before?”
“This was the first time. They normally get along fine.” As she spoke, she looked away. Had Savannah left because she didn’t feel safe? Because it was in no sense “home”? Was she being abused?
“What’s Tim’s last name? Where does he work?”
“Hixon. And he works at Schillers Auto Repair.” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “Does all that really matter?”
I kept on as if she hadn’t protested. “How about Savannah’s father? Could she be with him?”
“Last I heard, he was living in Texas. Savannah hasn’t had any contact with him since she was two.” She grimaced as if her mouth tasted sour. “And she knows that he’s never paid child support.”
“Is there any chance she could be suicidal?” New in town, no friends that the mom could name, father figures she couldn’t trust—it wouldn’t be a complete shock.
“No. Never.” But Ms. Taylor’s breath shook.
“Tell me more about what happened,” I said.
“After she and Tim had their … argument, my daughter went to her kung fu class, but she never came back. And I know she was there, because I talked to the instructor this morning.”
I blinked. “Kung fu? Is this the class taught by Sifu Terry?” Daniel loved Sifu Terry. He was always talking about him and about what they had learned in class. Some of the moves Daniel showed me were ones I’d tried to teach him before, but of course it wasn’t as interesting when your own dad was the instructor.
Her eyes widened. “How do you know about that school?”
“Because my son Daniel takes classes there, too.”
Her eyes went to the nameplate on my desk and then back to my face. “You’re Daniel Diaz’s father?”
“Yes.” Something inside me went still. Waiting. Waiting for the rest of it.
“Sifu told me that he left while they were still mopping the floor.”
“While who was?”
“My daughter and your son. Savannah and Daniel. The last time anyone saw her, she was with Daniel.”
JENNY DOWD
I got up to use the bathroom. The girl didn’t even stir. That worried me. But when I leaned over her, her breathing was even.
In the hallway, the light falling through the translucent vent cover let me know it was late morning. Without a phone, clock, or watch, it was so hard to keep track of time. Every day I made a tick mark on a paper napkin hidden in the back of a cupboard. But since I wasn’t sure when I’d started it, I didn’t really know what day of the week it was. Maybe even what month.
After I flushed the toilet, I did what I no longer allowed myself to do.
I turned on the bathroom light and looked at my face.
Or what was left of it.
I did not let myself blink. I made myself see it. Every inch of red that still showed the marks of being stitched together.
My face was no longer a bloody, open horror.
It was worse.
I looked like a monster. Sir had taken out the stitches, but my skin was still angry, crimson and swollen, meeting in some places, gaping in others.
My bottom lip had a hole in it now. The ripped edges of my torn left nostril had also refused to knit together. I whistled when I breathed, and I drooled all the time. A barely healed gash ran from the edge of my lower eyelid nearly to my chin. A bit higher, and I would have lost my eye.
When my face started to burn, I realized I was crying, salty tears slowly leaking from my eyes. With a piece of toilet paper, I dabbed at them as lightly as I could. The pain still made me wince. Then I flipped the switch down and left. Since it was daytime, I decided it was okay to turn on the light in the bedroom. I wanted to look at her, check to see if she was okay.
Lying on her side, curled around her broken arm in its makeshift splint, the girl still didn’t stir. Sir had said to let her sleep, that that would help her heal, but wasn’t there a point when it was too long?
I sat back down on the edge of the bed. The girl’s scraped-up face was slack, her mouth open. She was so still. Could she be dead? A fist squeezed my heart. Holding my breath, I leaned closer. Her chest was definitely moving. Her hair was dark like mine, but wavier. It smelled so sweet, like apples. I had run out of shampoo months ago, and Sir hadn’t brought any more.
Even though I was only an inch away from her face, her breath kept the same rhythm and she didn’t move.
With trembling fingers, I reached out and gently cupped her left hand, the injured one. She still didn’t flinch or react in any way. Her fingers were the same color and temperature as mine. I released her hand. It stayed limp.
After all these lonely months, here was this girl, plopped down in the middle of my bedroom. It felt like she filled up every square inch of space. She was an alien who had crash-landed on planet Jenny. Even asleep, she changed everything. Someone else to look at. Someone else to talk to, at least once she woke up.
What would she think when she saw me? Would she scream? Throw up? The first time I saw myself in a mirror, I had gotten sick. Vomited so hard some of the stitches had ripped free.
The quilt had fallen away from the top half of her body. Her green, short-sleeve T-shirt read MO DUK PAI. I said the words out loud. I said everything out loud now, just to have someone to talk to. Occasionally I recorded myself singing and then played it back and sang the harmony. Somehow these things made me feel less alone. When a faint frown creased her face, I realized I needed to remember how I had behaved out in the world. I went into the living area. Sir had left the backpack on the couch, so it must be hers. I looked inside. There wasn’t much. A wallet, a big library book about that kung fu guy Bruce Lee, and a black cloth sash that I figured must have something to do with the book.
The wallet held three dollars. A little pocket that fastened with a snap held two quarters and a nickel. In the slots for cards, there were just three: a library card, a driver’s license, and a student ID for Wilson High. Her name was Savannah Taylor, and she was a sophomore.