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IF HE’D STOLEN a girl, where would he hide her?
   What a way to be thinking, to catch oneself thinking. Wells Davidson stumbled on a clump of brush; the smell of sage rose into the cold, dry air. The sky above was the palest blue. Small airplanes crisscrossed through it, searching.
   Other members of his team — other neighbors, trying to help 
— walked ten feet on either side of him. A tall man with dark hair, wearing a ski parka over a dress shirt. A woman in a khaki outfit with a white hat like a cloth sombrero. All through the foothills of Boise, people swarmed in these organized groups. Searching, calling. From up here, Wells could see the ridge of Saddleback Park, the towers of the hospitals downtown. He could see his neighborhood, far below, the small house that he shared with his wife, Francine. He could even see the black shape of their dog, Kilo, circling the yard, next to the picnic table, looking up and probably wondering why so many people were in the hills again this afternoon.
   The girl had disappeared two nights before. Nine years old, and she’d been sleeping in her back yard, on a trampoline with her younger sister, who didn’t wake up until the next morning, an empty sleeping bag beside her. Wells had known the girl — her name and her sharp face, her wild black hair. She waved when she coasted down the sidewalk on her red bicycle. That was all. She lived just down the street, two houses from him and Francine.
   The trampoline, at this distance, looked like a dark hole bored deep into the earth. Yesterday morning he’d looked out his kitchen window and seen three men in suits and gloves dusting for fingerprints, picking at the black mat with tweezers, photographing it.
   “Hurry up,” someone called. “Keep the line straight.” It was the short, thick police officer who led their search team. His gun belt looked heavy, the crown of his felt hat lined dark with sweat despite the cold.
   Wells had thought that one day of searching would be enough 
— after all, if the girl had been stolen away, it was probably in a car and she was now miles, states from here. Francine disagreed; almost eight months pregnant, she wanted to search. She thought that evidence from the trampoline or wherever else might suggest that the girl was closer. Francine was with another team now; she’d started earlier, while he was helping with the tents again. He’d listened as the sheriff spoke to the volunteers, saying, “We know in our hearts that she’s alive,” saying that it had been two nights but that it was quite possible that whoever had done this was sitting tight, waiting for things to quiet down so they could move farther away.
   Wells glanced up just as his team met another group of searchers. The two lines slipped through each other, paths crossing at right angles. He slowed, surrounded for a moment by girls, blond girls in stocking caps and heavy coats, boots. Serious expressions on their faces, chapped lips set tight. They were the lost girl’s classmates, perhaps, or from her church, or both. They didn’t look up as they passed, just straight ahead, down at the ground, searching for their friend.
   The wind whistled, sharp and cold. It was mid-October; if the weather had been like this two days ago, the sisters would never have slept outside on the trampoline. But it had been warmer, and they had wanted to try out their new down sleeping bags.
   Plastic shell casings, a piece of cloth that wouldn’t have anything to do with anything, shards of broken bottle so cloudy they looked like beach glass. Wells picked it all up with his gloved hand, slipped it into the clear plastic bag he’d been given. What would he do if he found the girl? What if she was dead? He was supposed to leave her be, to alert the others, not to touch her. But that didn’t seem right somehow. If a person found his dead body in a place like this, tangled in the sagebrush with shards of sharp stones around his head or blood on his throat, he’d want them to reach out, at least to touch his shoulder, comfort him somehow, close his eyes.
   They were circling back to where they’d started now. Over a slight ridge, along a line of half-finished houses, all exposed plywood and white Tyvek, construction sites cordoned off with yellow tape. The streets here weren’t paved yet. Down below, all the vehicles and the orange tents stood at the end of the blacktop. Police cars lined that edge, along with an ambulance. Only police dogs were allowed on the search — a K9 truck was parked to one side — and the dogs other people had brought along were all tied together, leashes snarled. They pulled each other in and out of the shade, looking from a distance like one solid, furry mass. One barked, then another.
   Wells tried to find Francine, but she wasn’t around the tents. Across the hillsides, teams were still searching; she was either out there or already home, waiting for him.
   He turned and headed down the curving streets. Perhaps the girl had walked up this slope, led by a person or persons, into the foothills to hide. Or perhaps she was alone, wandering off, confused, something wrong with her memory. She could be so many places.
   Posters with her smiling face hung everywhere. PLEASE FIND ME. And blue ribbons had been tied in the trees’ branches. The trees here in the heights, by the newer homes, were recently planted, all their leaves gone. As he descended closer to his own neighborhood, the branches of the older, taller trees shook in the wind. A few yellow leaves, blown loose, spun down.
   Vans from the local news stations were parked all along the curb, call numbers painted on their sides; telescopic arms with round satellite dishes rose from them. He stepped over the thick black cords that snaked everywhere, pausing to look at the girl’s house, where all the cameramen pointed their lenses. It was one of the few two-story houses on the street. Clapboard, painted blue. All the curtains were drawn. He imagined the parents trapped inside, waiting for any word, the younger sister wondering why she’d been left behind.
   “Are you a neighbor?” said a woman with a microphone.
   He walked away without saying anything, without looking back, then turned at his driveway, went up the steps and through the side door. Kicking off his hiking boots, he took a beer from the refrigerator, leaned back against the counter, closed his eyes. He should have taken sunglasses — another day out in the brightness, squinting at everything, a headache coming on.
   He opened his eyes slowly, a fraction at a time. The framed photograph of Francine’s parents faced him. From long ago, back in Montana: her father wore a straw cowboy hat, a dark mustache hiding his mouth, a wrench in his hand that showed on the other side of Francine’s mother, his arm around her back. She was smiling, her dark hair blown sideways in the wind, wearing a purple dress that the wind pulled at, too. They stood in front of a yellow bulldozer. Francine had pointed out to him that through the cockpit you could see the top of her head, just a girl’s; her older sister Maya’s arm was visible on the other side. Wells had never had the chance to meet Francine’s parents. She sometimes said they would have liked him, but she never spoke much about them — she had been young, not even a teenager, when they died.
   The phone rang; it took a moment for him to find it beneath the newspaper on the table.
   “Is Francine there?” a man said.
   “Not right now.”
   “I’m calling from the hospital — I’m the scheduler. We haven’t heard from her.”
   “She’s just been so involved with the search,” Wells said.
   “Pardon me?”
   “For the missing girl,” he said. “She’s our neighbor. I’ll have Francine call.”
   Out the window, Kilo still sniffed around the edges of the yard, along the fence line. Two fences over, the round black trampoline sat, surrounded by yellow tape, the scene of a crime. Wells washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, halfway through his second beer, when Francine returned. She wore a blue hat with a floppy brim, a tan parka, and Kilo came in the door behind her, his black tail slapping the cabinets. He licked Wells’s hand, collapsed under the table, then got up and rushed off again to check something in the living room.
   “You all right?” Wells said.
   “I believe so.” Francine’s dark blond hair fell loose as she took off the hat; the light caught the pale freckles across her nose. “It feels good to be doing something, I guess.”
   “Someone from the hospital called,” he said. “They wanted to know if you’re coming back to work tomorrow.”
   Francine faced away from him, standing at the sink. She turned the faucet on and off, on again, letting it run for a moment. From the back she hardly looked pregnant at all — she said this was due to her height, the length of her torso. He’d always liked her broad shoulders, how strong she looked just standing in the kitchen or on the sidewalk with her neck and spine straight, those shoulders, her excellent posture.
   “You’ve been out there all day,” he said. “You shouldn’t be on your feet like that.”
   “It’s just,” she said. “It’s just that I keep thinking of myself when I was her age, how I felt, what I’d have done. And then I start thinking about our baby, how they can just disappear like this, no matter what you do.”
   “Francine.”
   “Look at her,” she said.
   “Who?”
   “I heard she was out searching today.”
   He realized that Francine was looking through the window; over her shoulder, he could see the upstairs window of the girl’s house. In that room, two houses away, the girl’s little sister was jumping on a bed, up and down, her black hair loose and her hands reaching toward the ceiling.
   “Do you know her name?” he said.
   “Which one?”
   “The little sister.”
   “Della?” she said. “I think that’s right.”
   They stayed like that, watching the girl jump; they didn’t say a thing until she tired herself out and climbed down. She walked away, disappearing from their view.