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already realized none of the kids are mine, so I have to look at something or I’ll be up again, pacing.
    By that time, the crowd in the church had swelled past capacity. Dads, mostly in business suits, stand with their wives. The parents of the kids, including Scotty’s mom and dad, race up the aisle, engulfing their kids with abandon. Tears flow. Their sobbing hangs over the rest of us like ugly green jealousy. No one admits it. We all stare at the floor, waiting for the doors to open up again.
    The officers usher the reunited loved ones out the back through the vestry. Soon, the front doors open again and more children are ushered in. I act happy for the parents in front of me when their daughter enters. But all I can think about is Laney and Jake.
    I agonize as the crowd in the church thins. I should not feel jealous or bitter. In reality such emotions, those words, mean nothing in that moment. The storm of dread, the torture of time passing, it permeates my cells, turning me inside out molecule by molecule. I can act happy for those parents but that’s just not real.
    More reunions spring to life before my eyes and the pews empty. Hundreds diminish to tens. None of us, the remaining, makes eye contact. When the next child arrives, I stop watching the door. At this instant my parental intuition fires. I know something awful has happened.
    Rachel bursts into the church. I blink, because Laney appears with her, attached to her side. I stand and race to my daughter . . . and to my wife. I embrace them both, engulfing Laney, finally able to protect. From what, I am still unsure.
    I stare into my daughter’s eyes, so thankful that she is okay, trying to convince myself that she is standing right before me, that this is not some kind of illusion. My heart races and I feel the bloodthrobbing through my body. Half of my nightmare dissipates. Laney is okay.
    I look to Rachel. In her crisp lawyer’s suit, she is a beacon of confidence. I am now in awe of her ability to find Laney. Then I look in her eyes and I see the truth of it.
    “Where’s Jake?” I ask.
    Laney looks up at me with an expression I have seen before but never understood. Rachel pulls my daughter closer. She whispers something to her that I do not hear.
    “I don’t know,” Laney says.
    Rachel pulls back, looks at Laney. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
    That is when I notice Laney is pale. I touch her forehead; her skin is clammy.
    “She’s in shock,” I tell Rachel, who nods.
    A paramedic approaches us. He reaches out, gently, moving as I imagine an angel might. His eyes meet mine. They are soft and understanding. Rachel moves a little, making space for this man who is a stranger, who now parts my family, and we are thankful for it. He places a blanket on Laney’s shoulders.
    “I’m just going to take you out back. Have you sit down for a little while before you leave.”
    “My mom,” Laney sobs.
    My throat tightens at the sound. My girl needs protection. I can hear it.
    “Wait here,” Rachel tells me. “Jake . . .”
    They are gone and I am alone again. I shouldn’t, but I count the families waiting. Fourteen.
    A man in pleated polyester pants and an outdated tie walks through the door next. He looks vaguely familiar with his tinted glasses and thinning hair. I watch as the man walks up and sits down beside me.
    “You’re Simon Connolly?” The man extends a hand. “I’m Phil Hartman, the school guidance counselor.”
    I had talked to Phil before but never in person. I remember the first time his name came up, after Jake had been called to the office for something. I had laughed, telling Jake why the name was funny. I showed him an old Saturday Night Live best-of disc, the one with Phil Hartman playing Frankenstein. I learned later that Jake went to school the next day with the disc. He showed the entire class. He and Phil had not seen eye to eye since.
    “Where’s Jake?”
    It comes out as a demand. I find myself pushing closer to