Water ran in muddy streams along the shoulder of the road, soaking through the canvas of my shoes before I had gone two hundred yards.

I kept one arm tight over Theodore’s back, holding him against my chest, while my right hand stayed buried in my coat pocket, wrapped around the smooth plastic case of the burner phone.

At the bottom of the long hill, where Crest Road met the county highway, a small tin bus shelter stood under a dim streetlight.

The metal bench inside was streaked with wet rust and windblown leaves, but three corrugated walls kept the worst of the rain off our heads.

I sat down on the cold bench, pulled Theodore onto my lap, and pressed the back of my hand to his cheek.