It came to him—like cancer.The baby-sitter, cell phone still caught between rapidly texting thumbs, had finally realized the giant, red plastic car-shaped shopping cart held animal crackers, milk, Oreos, and a squeezable bath toy, but no dimpled, drooling tot. Panic catching her like an electric current, she bolted around the end cap, scanning one aisle and the next, then ran for the doors and for the vested employee who might have—must have—seen her charge.“Have you seen a two-year-old? He’s blond … A … a red hoodie, blue jeans. Please, I can’t find him.” Spinning, staring back inside the store. “He was in that cart.” In plain view of the doors.The employee alerted another to start looking at the far end. A manager, sensing a shift in the normal commerce, turned her attention outward, over the parking lot with scattered vehicles clustered more densely near the entrance, to the street, to the screech of brakes.Hands pressed to his ears could not block the screeching, screeching in his head.
