“I wouldn’t.”
“Then why did he say—”
“Because he and Grant had been giving me something.”
The front door handle moved.
I flinched.
Dad took my wrist.
“Listen to me. There is a folder in the bottom drawer of my desk. Blue cover. Bring it here.”
“How can I get it if Harold is outside?”
“The back door.”
“Dad, you can’t go out there.”
“I can walk.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
He held my gaze.
Behind the door, Harold called my name again.
Dad’s fingers tightened around mine.
“He knows I’m alive now. We have very little time.”
I ran through the kitchen and unlocked the back door.
Cold air rushed inside.
Dad followed, one hand pressed against the counter as he moved. We crossed the small yard and entered the detached garage through a side door. His truck stood beneath a tarp, dusted with frost.
“Keys,” he said.
“They’re in your study?”
“In the truck.”
I pulled away the tarp.
The old blue pickup looked exactly as it always had, except for the rear window, which had been covered from inside with cardboard.
Dad climbed into the passenger seat while I went around to the driver’s side.
“Where are we going?”
“First, the house.”
“Harold is there.”
“That’s why we’re going.”
The engine coughed twice before starting.
