“Where are the cutters now?” he asked.

“On my workbench inside,” I said.

“The shackle snapped at 11:32 p.m.”

He glanced up at me, his eyes narrowing a little under the brim of his wet hat.

He didn’t ask why I’d noted the exact minute.

He keyed his shoulder radio and called for an emergency medical unit to respond code two.

“Does the boy have any medical conditions I need to pass along to dispatch?” he asked.

“He was outside in wet pajamas for two hours at least,” I said.