That was when he saw the child. She sat on the bottom step beside the service entrance, her stuffed rabbit resting in her lap. Dark curls framed a pale, solemn face.

Her white cotton dress was too large and clearly not meant for a formal party.

Graham approached slowly. “Hello.” She did not answer. “Are you lost?” The girl looked directly at him, but there was no recognition in her expression.

Graham crouched. “Where is your mother?” Still nothing.

Then she raised her hands. Mother scared.

Graham froze. His grandmother Evelyn had been deaf. She’d taught him American Sign Language before he learned to ride a bicycle, and as a child he’d spent whole weekends speaking with his hands at her small house in Milwaukee.

After Evelyn died, Graham rarely used ASL. But his hands remembered.

Where is your mother? he signed.

The girl’s eyes widened. She pointed toward the service entrance. From behind the partially open door came Vanessa’s voice.

“I told you to keep her upstairs, Nora.”

Graham rose without making a sound.

“She woke up and came looking for me,” another woman answered. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hale. It won’t happen again.”