She wore a red ribbon in her hair and carried a backpack that looked too heavy for her shoulders.

Eleven years old.

I counted it without meaning to.

The girl looked up at the house, then turned her head toward the street.

Her eyes passed over the Buick without stopping, and she followed Rebecca inside.

I put my hand on the door handle, and Sarah grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Not yet.”