He watched me with a quiet, patient calm that no nine-year-old should possess — the calm of a child long accustomed to waiting while adults decided what to do with him.

“Who is this boy?” I asked.

“You left him for me to watch,” Beatrice said, and held out a shaking hand.

The boy took a small folded paper from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

It was a page torn from a school notebook, and the handwriting on it stopped my heart. Beatrice, an urgent emergency came up.

Please take care of him until I get back.