My 7-year-old whispered at bedtime. “Mommy, the bus driver stops at a house sometimes.” I said, “What house?”

Stay in your vehicle. Units are on the way.” My eyes moved to the bus. Six small faces were visible through the windows. One of them was my Lily. She sat near the middle, clutching her backpack against her chest, looking smaller than I had ever seen her. Mr. Doyle started walking toward the bus, faster now. I whispered into the phone, “He’s going back to the children.” The officer’s voice sharpened. “Keep recording.” My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. Mr. Doyle climbed into the driver’s seat, but before he could close the door, two police cruisers turned onto the dirt road with lights flashing. He froze. Then he tried to act normal. He smiled, waved one hand, and stepped back down like he had nothing to hide. “Afternoon, officers,” he called. “Bus issue?” The first officer didn’t smile. “Step away from the bus.” Mr. Doyle’s face changed. “I’m responsible for these children.” “Not right now,” the officer said.