MORGAN GOLDEN-KAUFMAN

Cop cars blocked the entrance to the street, so Mom dropped her and Marc off at the end of the road.

“Go right home,” Mom said. “Your dad isn’t answering his phone, but I’m sure he’s there. Lock the doors and stay inside. You got your key, Marc?”

Marc rolled his eyes and tapped his chest where the key hung on a leather cord under his sweatshirt. He got out of the car and slammed the door before Morgan could scoot out his side. She would get her own key when she turned twelve in one year, seven months, and six days. She hated being dependent on her stupid, bossy brother.

People didn’t lock doors much on Azalea Court. Dad locked theirs at night, but not during the day, especially since he was either home or working somewhere on the Court. So, it was surprising that they needed the key to get in, in broad daylight. Morgan figured it was because of the cop cars and Mrs. Blum being missing, which is why Mom picked them up at the bus stop and drove them home. Mom said that Dad wanted her to take Marc and her back to her hospital, but that didn’t make any sense because of course they would be perfectly safe in their own house.

Marc went straight to his room and right away the battle noises blasted from his computer. Sometimes he played a cool world-building game, but mostly it was fights with aliens and other gory disgusting stuff. But Morgan couldn’t really blame him. There were no other kids on the Court, only old people. Some afternoons they had soccer or art after school, but what were they supposed to do for fun on the other days? Ride their bikes by themselves? Homework, Mom said. Be creative, Dad said.

Mom and Dad had no idea that Marc played computer games for hours and she hung out with Aggie.

She could do homework, but she felt squirrelly sitting alone at the kitchen table with her math workbook. Creepy really, thinking about Mrs. Blum being missing and maybe hurt and maybe even dead. She liked Mrs. Blum and didn’t really understand what it meant to have Alzheimer’s and people thinking she had just wandered off, not knowing what she was doing.

She wrote Dad a note and left it on the kitchen table, held in place with the saltshaker. Going for a short walk, she wrote. Home by dinnertime. Her Dad would be angry. What are you thinking going outside when there’s a kidnapper in the neighborhood, he would yell. She was only going across the Court to Aggie’s but admitting that would be worse.

Aggie babysat for them once, when she and Marc were little. Usually Mrs. Blum would come over on the rare occasions when their parents went out together at night, but that one time she couldn’t come. Mom was totally against having Aggie sit, but Dad teased that Aggie wouldn’t corrupt their children’s fragile political development in three hours. Marc spent the time in his room, but she sat and talked with Aggie who described her doll collection, and Morgan really wanted to see it. So, the next day she told Dad she was going over to Mrs. Blum’s to help her roll knitting yarn into balls, and instead snuck over to Number Six. Knock on the back door, Aggie had said, and I’ll let you in if Arnie isn’t home.

Arnie didn’t like her parents any more than they liked him, Morgan guessed.

She was too old to play with dolls, but you wouldn’t believe Aggie’s collection. Baby dolls, all of them. Aggie sewed clothes for them and hung the clothes on tiny hangers in a doll-sized wardrobe that Arnie made out of wood and Aggie painted with roses. The dolls had cradles and canopy beds with matching quilts and pillows. Sometimes when they played Aggie looked very sad and Morgan wanted to ask her what was wrong, but she was afraid Aggie might cry, so she never did.

Morgan’s favorite doll was Cookie, and Aggie let her play with Cookie as much as she wanted. Cookie was the size of a real baby and you fed her water and she peed and you changed her diaper. Morgan had dolls at home, dolls of all different races and their privates looked almost real and they came with books about children in Africa and India and Peru, but none were as soft and cuddly as Cookie.

The day Mrs. Blum went missing, Morgan knocked on Aggie’s back door. “Arnie is out doing errands,” Aggie said. “But I don’t know how long he’ll be gone.”

“That’s okay. I can’t stay long. Can I play with Cookie for a few minutes?”

Aggie opened the door and Morgan went to the extra bedroom, which was all decorated for a real baby but had dolls instead. She took Cookie from the crib and sat with her in the rocking chair. Two lullabies, she promised herself, and then she would go home.