I look at the double doors again.

“Did he tell you what happened?”

The doctor pauses.

“He told us enough to make us want to keep asking.”

That is not the answer I want, but it is the first useful sentence anyone has given me.

Less than an hour earlier, I’d been standing outside Frank’s house with Mrs.

Johns, the elderly neighbor who found Toby.

I remember the smell of wet leaves along the curb, her coat buttoned all the way to her neck, and the way she kept one hand resting on the roof of her car.