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That could mean anything with a five year old. Crying. Refusal. Violence involving Velcro.

“That’s fine,” I say. “No rush.”

That’s a lie. There's absolutely a rush. There's a missing woman, a child in limbo, and I've not slept in any meaningful way for hours.

But rushing Sophie won’t help, I know that much, at least.

“Tom wanted to come, but…” Sophie twists the tissue I picture her clutching harder. “He’s having a rough time with all this.”

My hand tightens around the phone. “What does that mean?”

“He’s devastated.”

Devastated is one of those words people use when they don’t want to say useless. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Tom over the years, it’s that he doesn’t exactly do well in a crisis… or with emotions… or stress of any kind.

“I understand,” I lie. Because I don't.

“But he’s out looking,” Sophie adds quickly. “He and Mick both. We all are. The police are aware. Everyone is doing everything they can.”

Everyone, everything… words like that make me itch. They sound comforting and mean nothing.

“And Lucy?” I ask.

A pause. “She’s quiet.”

I hate that. It feels wrong.

Maggie was never quiet. Not as a child or a teenager. Certainly not as an adult, unless silence serves a dramatic purpose. Maggie fills every room she enters. Loud laugh, loud footsteps, loud mistakes.

Her daughter is quiet?

I don’t know what to do with that.

“We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Sophie says. “Is that all right?”

“Yes. I’ll be ready.”

I hang up and immediately look around the kitchen.

Ready… what does that mean? For a child? I know I volunteered to look after her during this time, but now the nerves are kicking the hell in.

For stability I reach automatically for my notebook and check what I’ve written.

Juice?

Snacks?

Clean sheets?

Nightlight?

Pre K schedule?

Emergency contacts?

Allergies?

Favorite food?