“You shouldn’t have come, Grant. Now we’re all in danger.” Just then, a black car pulled up behind us, and my daughter screamed…

was a child. A girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, fragile as a sparrow, her dark hair haphazardly tied back with a frayed elastic. She wore a washed-out, oversized polo shirt that hung off her narrow shoulders. Her posture was lopsided, weighed down by a bulging plastic grocery sack she gripped with white knuckles. Through the translucent plastic, I could continue reading …