For the first time, Brian felt scared, but he kept his eyes on the woman. The snow was falling faster now, and the sidewalk was getting slippery. He stumbled once, but managed not to fall. He was out of breath trying to keep up with the lady. How far was she going? he wondered. Four blocks later he had his answer. She stepped into the entranceway to an old building, stuck her key in the lock, and went inside. Brian raced to catch the door before it closed behind her, but he was too late. The door was locked.

Brian didn’t know what to do next, but then through the glass he saw a man coming toward him. As the man opened the door and hurried past him, Brian managed to grab it and to duck inside before it closed again.

The hall was dark and dirty, and the smell of stale food hung in the air. Ahead of him he could hear footsteps going up the stairs. Gulping to swallow his fear, and trying to not make noise, Brian slowly began to climb to the first landing. He would see where the lady went; then he would get out of there and find a telephone. Maybe instead of calling Gran, he would dial 91l, he thought.

His mom had taught him that that was what he should do when he really needed help.

Which so far he didn’t.

“All right, Mrs. Dornan. Describe your son to me,” the police officer said soothingly.

“He’s seven and small for his age,” Catherine said. She could hear the shrillness in her voice. They were sitting in a squad car, parked in front of Saks, near the spot where the violinist had been playing.

She felt Michael’s hand clutch hers reassuringly.

“What color hair?” the officer asked.

Michael answered, “Like mine. Kind of reddish. His eyes are blue. He’s got freckles and one of his front teeth is missing. He has the same kind of pants I’m wearing, and his jacket is like mine ’cept it’s blue and mine is green. He’s skinny.”