I leaned forward over the steering wheel.
“What are you doing, sweetheart?”
I couldn’t hear her answer, of course.
A few minutes passed.
Then an old pickup truck turned onto the street.
It was a faded blue, with rust around the wheel wells and a dent in the tailgate. The truck slowed beside the curb.
Emily’s entire face changed.
For the first time that morning, she smiled.
She hurried toward the passenger door and climbed inside.
My stomach dropped.
Who was that?
Why was my fourteen-year-old daughter getting into a truck instead of going to school?
I reached for my phone.
I could call the police. I could call the school. I could call Mark.
But before I could do any of those things, I saw the driver turn his head toward Emily.
She laughed at something he said.
Then I recognized the shape of his face.
The familiar movement of his hand on the steering wheel.
