A nervous feeling nagged at me, like maybe someone else had snuck in there and taken it. But when I got to the parking lot, his car was gone, too, so I retrieved my bike from the hedge and headed home. It was late September and getting cooler. The wind blew through my sweatshirt like it was made of gauze. Then a car passed so close, it sprayed muddy water all over me. I was fairly certain it was a red Jeep. Cold and shivery, I left my bike in the yard. My fingers fumbled at the lock to the front door, too shaky to line up the key. It dropped on the steps, bounced once, and fell through the wooden slats of the porch to the dirt below. I got on hands and knees and peered down at it. The crawl space under the stairs was muddy and dark. I’d have to shimmy on my belly to squeeze through the opening. I started to whimper just as Carla opened the door. The aroma of freshly baked cookies wafted out. “Happens to me all the time,” she said. “Come on in. I have extra keys.” “I’m all wet.”
