In the next ten minutes I learn that Corbin is in second grade, he’s going to be a scientist — a pay-lee-on-tol-ee-jist — and his mom doesn’t get off work until seven tonight. When the brother shows up, he gets out of the car to help load the helicopter shark into the back seat, and Corbin says, “This is Valley. She helped me.”

He’s a taller version of little Corbin, scrawny and spindly. His hair flops down in front and hides the world from his eyes. When he brushes it away, I can see smudges and smears on his glasses. He might as well be blind.

“Hey, ’m Eric,” says the driver, and he sticks his hand out to me. It’s not the worst handshake. It’s not pathetic, but I notice his hand is softer than mine — it feels like there is only gristle where the bones ought to be. I could twist his fingers until they broke, but I don’t think I will need to do that.

“Maybe I can just borrow your phone? I need to call my uncle and tell him where I am.”

He fishes a phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

“I haven’t used one like this. What should I do?”

He takes the phone back and touches the screen. Nothing happens.

“Forgot to charge it,” he says.

“Mom is going to kill you, Eric,” says Corbin. “He’s always not charging his phone. And not taking out the garbage. And he sleeps in his jeans. He’s a total hobknocker. . . .”

“Shut up, Corbin,” says Eric, and he wraps a skinny arm around his brother and claps a hand over the noisy mouth. It’s an automatic reflex. He’s had a lot of practice with that maneuver.

“Can we go to your house?” I say. “I need to call — and use a bathroom.”

“I guess.”

Things are coming together. I’ve got a ride I can control. And I’ve got some time to think. And I can always break his bones if I need to.