“Will you have a second child?” I ask.

“I hope so. Once I finish up my degree at least. Ronnie was a bit of an oops. A happy oops,” Becki corrects hastily, coloring slightly. “But I’d hoped to finish college first.”

“Of course.” Evan’s still working the soccer field; Ronald’s back at the jungle gym. I get the lid off the strawberries, hold them out.

“That reminds me-I gotta get to the grocery store,” Becki comments, selecting a strawberry and taking a bite. “Actually, where is the grocery store?”

I give her directions, and that leads her to digging through her diaper bag for a notepad, and that leads me to sketching out several rough maps with the best local restaurants, a great bookstore, this absolutely wonderful bakery over on Huron Avenue. I feel like I’m drawing a map to the life I used to live. Here are places where you should shop, eat, and play. Here are things you, your husband, and your children would enjoy doing.

Cambridge is such a nice town, filled with historic grandeur mixed with the hip Harvard scene. Maybe I could bring Evan to the park more often. Maybe I could attempt the special-needs playgroup again. Or perhaps the local pool. Evan’s pretty good at pools. The swimming tires him out, keeps him distracted. I could bring a book, relax in the sun. I could mix us both fun, fruity drinks. Strawberry smoothies, virgin piña coladas. Michael and I went to Baja once, where we drank the best piña coladas, made with fresh fruit juice and rum. We’d drink them starting at sunrise, while lounging on the beach, digging our toes into the warm, white sand…

“ Victoria?”

I’m lost in my fantasy, making the mistake of remembering better days, of wanting a life beyond the cage in which I live. The high-pitched note in Becki’s voice brings me back. I stop drawing a map to the best coffee shop. I look at the playground. It takes me only a second to understand Becki’s shrill tone.

Evan and the little boy are gone.

I start with the usual platitudes. They couldn’t have gone far, we’d only glanced away for a minute. Why doesn’t she check by the street? I’ll start with the woods.

Becki obediently rushes toward the empty sidewalk. I make a beeline for the woods, calling Evan’s and Ronnie’s names. Nothing.

My heart’s beating too hard, my breath growing shallow. Maybe the boys are playing hide-and-seek. Maybe Evan saw Ronnie toddle off, and set out to rescue him. Maybe they’d just gotten curious. Boys do that. Some boys at least.

I trot down the impossibly long wooded perimeter, calling, calling, calling. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Then I start to think about things a mother shouldn’t have to think about. Those two young boys in the United Kingdom who’d lured the toddler away from the mall and killed him down by the railroad tracks. Then an incident much closer to home, where two teenagers had murdered a seven-year-old boy by shoving gravel down his throat-they hadn’t wanted him to tell his parents they’d stolen his bike. Or maybe the case of the six-year-old who’d lit the three-year-old on fire. Or the child who’d murdered his neighbor with a wrestling move, then stuffed her body under his mattress.

I make it down one side of the field, across the end, then work my way along the other, calling the boys’ names. The woods aren’t that deep. I can see the rooftops of neighboring homes through the boughs of green trees. The morning’s quiet; the sounds of traffic, muted. The boys should be able to hear me. Ronnie, at the very least, should call back.

Unless Evan won’t let him.

My pulse spikes, lights dancing in front of my eyes. I’m going to pass out. Can’t pass out. Have to think, have to think, have to think.

Evan’s not responding. Why isn’t he responding? Because he doesn’t want me to find him. Because he’s Evan and he’s playing some game and he doesn’t want to bother with me just yet. He wants to do what Evan wants to do, whatever that might be.

Incentive. That’s what it comes down to when you are a parent. Evan isn’t responding, because reducing my fear/panic/insanity isn’t enough incentive for him. He needs something better.

“Snack time,” I call out, as if this is an everyday morning. Becki and I just happen to both be racing up and down the soccer field without our children in sight. “Banana muffins and strawberries! Come on, who’s hungry?”

Evan loves banana muffins. It’s some of the only baking he lets me do.

Becki takes up the chant. We both work the wooded edges. “Snack time. Muffins and strawberries. Come on, boys, it’s getting late.”

I can tell by the rising pitch of Becki’s voice that as minute passes into minute, she’s starting to panic. It’s one thing to lose your toddler for thirty seconds. Quite another to still not be able to find him after a couple of minutes of hard searching.

It’s not working. Evan isn’t budging for banana muffins. I need something better.

I return to Becki, turning her so our backs are to the neighboring woods. “Evan sometimes plays this game,” I begin, wondering if my voice sounds as thin and strained to her as it does to me. “He hides and won’t come out unless there’s good reason.”

“What?” she says, clearly preoccupied.

“Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes.” She digs it out of her pocket and I take it from her, punching in my number.

“I’m going to run to the other end of the field,” I say. “Then I want you to press Send. Don’t look at your phone. Don’t look as if you’re making the call. Once I answer, you can hang up.”

Becki seems confused, but she nods, obedient in her fear, wanting something-anything-to return her world to right. She heads down one end of the field, still calling Ronnie’s name, while I reach the other side. I try not to fidget with my phone or appear like I’m expecting a call. Evan can be very clever.

Thirty seconds later, my phone rings. I don’t grab it right away. I give it a moment or two. Then I make a big show of taking it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. I put my phone to my ear. “Hello, darling.” My voice still doesn’t sound natural. Maybe that’s okay. I’m looking for my missing son, so of course I’m still a little stressed.

“You want to talk to Evan? I… I don’t know where he is, honey. Ummm, ummm, let me see.” I hold the phone away from my ear, then call out, “Evan, Chelsea ’s on the phone. Evan. Your sister’s calling for you.”

I cross to the other side of the field. Repeat the show, alternating between having a fictional conversation with a dead phone and calling for Evan to take his sister’s call. Becki has stopped searching. She’s standing by the playground, just staring at me.

She’s starting to figure it out. That her new “friends” aren’t as normal as they appeared. That something’s wrong with us, and that something could hurt her.

“ Chelsea has to go,” I call out now. “Come on, Evan. Now or never. It’s your sister.”

At the last minute, just as I’m starting to give up, a bush rustles toward the end of the soccer field. Evan appears. He stands right in front of the bush, his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. The little boy is crying soundlessly, the way kids do when they’re utterly terrified. Ronnie doesn’t try to step away from Evan, but remains in place, his shirt torn, face smeared with dirt, hair tangled with twigs.

“ Chelsea?” Evan asks.

I look my son in the eye. Hold out the phone without hesitation. “ Chelsea,” I say firmly.

Evan lets Ronnie go. The little boy bolts for his mother, who scoops him up immediately into her protective embrace. Evan walks to my side and takes the phone. He holds it to his ear only a second, then hands it back.

“You lied to me.”

“Why did you take Ronnie away?”

“You tricked me.”

“Why did you take Ronnie away?”

My angelic son smiles at me. “I’ll never tell.”