everything there?”
“You didn’t open it,” she replied.
“I. . . don’t understand.”
“You didn’t open it,” she repeated. “From the time I got on the bus, I was the only one who had it. It’s always been with me.”
“And so. . .?”
“So if you didn’t open it, whatever was there is still there, see?”
“Yes. That was a very good deduction. You’d make a good detective,” I told her, mentally chastising myself for overlooking the obvious—if I were interested in protecting a child from kidnapping, I would certainly have affixed a tracking device in some way, and a backpack would be quite suitable. I would not make such a mistake again.
“I would?” she asked, checking my face carefully.
“You certainly would,” I assured her, my voice brisk and professional. “A good detective works only with the facts. Anything that is not a fact should be ignored.”
“There’ll be detectives, won’t there? Looking for me, I mean.”
“Certainly. They have probably already begun.”
“But they won’t find me, will they?”
“No, child, they won’t.”
“Because you’re smarter than them, right?”
“I am. . . . It is not strictly a matter of intelligence,” I explained. “It is more a matter of careful planning and skillful execution. There is no accounting for random chance, but—”
“So they *could* find me?” she interrupted.
“It is possible. Nothing is one hundred percent certain in these matters. There is always *some* chance.”
“Oh,” is all she said.
“Don’t you want to draw?” I asked her.
“I always want to draw.”
“Then why not. . .?”
“I don’t want you to be mad,” she said, her voice tentative.
“Why would I be angry?” I asked her, hoping to teach by example the difference between insanity and annoyance—people are so imprecise in their verbiage, but only children seem capable of learning.
“Because I want to draw you,” she said, her eyes wide and alert.
A conundrum was thus produced. The child’s intelligence was manifest, a phenomenon not to be ignored. Therefore, despite my desire to make her stay with me as pleasant and stress-free as possible under the circumstances, surely she realized that a sketch of her own kidnapper would be of great value to the authorities. On the other hand, she certainly had ample opportunity to use her eyes, if not her skill at drawing, and my features were, presumably, memorized. If I refused her request, it might supplement the illusion that she was, eventually, to be returned. Conversely, it would perhaps distress her. On balance, I elected to compromise.
“You may certainly draw me, if you wish,” I told her. “But under the circumstances I’m sure you will understand you’ll have to leave the. . . artwork here when you leave.”
“It was for you anyway,” she said. “I never keep what I draw.”
I pondered this internally. Children are generally guileless, but that is a rule to which there are many exceptions. . . some characterological, but most situational. Children are extraordinarily self-absorbed—a characteristic often retained into adulthood. But that sort of analysis did not figure in my assessment—globalization is not a valid problem-solving tool. Why would the child never keep her own handiwork? Under other circumstances, I would have simply asked the apparently invited question. But the child’s mien was that of someone who did not expect to be questioned, so I merely said:
“Very well. How would you like me to. . . pose?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she assured me. “I can just draw while we. . . talk or something, okay?”
“All right.”
She opened her backpack and removed a thick drawing tablet and several pencils.
“I have pastel sticks too,” she said, noticing my observations. “But I don’t draw people with them. Not until I’m done with the pencils.”
“Very sensible,” I told her. “Pencils are more precise, aren’t they?”
“They’re sharper,” she replied, as though amplifying her agreement.
She busied herself at the tablet. I watched her work, dark hair spilling over her face, almost obscuring it from view. I glanced at the tablet and noticed that a good many pages had been removed. Apparently it was true that the child did not keep her work once it was completed. I. . .
“How long does it usually take?” Her voice intruded into my thoughts, startling me. Even without glancing at my watch, I realized some considerable time had passed.
“How long does what take, Zoe?”
