Well, he would speak to the sheriff, but not just yet. Let her ease a bit more. Let her come to trust him, just a little.

"Would you like a slice of toast? I've learned how to work this toast holder really well. I haven't burned any bread now for nearly a week."

The small head shook back and forth. "Okay, I'll eat both slices. If you change your mind, I've got some really good strawberry jam, made right down there in Dillinger by a Mrs. Harper. She's been here for all of her sixty-four years.

"I've been here for nearly two weeks now. I come from San Francisco. This cabin was built by the grandfather of a friend of mine. He loaned it to me. I've never been here before. It's a beautiful place.

Maybe later you can tell me where you come from. I wanted to be alone, to be completely away from everything and everyone, to be isolated, you know what I mean? No, I don't guess you'd have any idea, would you?

"Who said that life is too much with us? Maybe I did and just forgot. So much stuff can happen to you when you're grown-up, but then you're supposed to be able to handle it. But you're just a little kid.

Nothing bad should have happened to you. I'll fix things if I can.

"But you know," he continued slowly, eyeing the strips of undershirt on her wrists and ankles, thinking of that small battered body, knowing she'd been raped, "I think we should see a doctor, maybe in a couple of days, then we should see the sheriff. I hope Dillinger has a sheriff." The mewling sounds began. She laid the empty cereal bowl on the floor beside him and raised her face. She began shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth, the mewling sounds coming from the back of her throat, raw and ugly.