The Target

close, I'll make him real sorry for hurting you. I promise.

    "Please come out. The sunrise is beautiful. Would you like to see it? There are lots of pinks and soft grays and even some oranges. It's going to happen pretty quick now."

    The lock clicked open. The door slowly opened. She stood there wearing his undershirt that came to her small feet and was nearly falling off her shoulders.

    "Hi," he said easily, not moving a muscle. "You want some cereal now?" She nodded.

    "Can you help me up?" He held out his hand to her. He saw the fear, the wild panic in her eyes. She looked at his hand as if it were a snake about to bite her. She scooted around him and ran into the kitchen. Okay, it was too soon for her to begin to trust him. "The milk's on the counter," he called out. "Can you reach it?"

    He walked very slowly back into the kitchen. She was sitting in the corner, pressed against the wall, the bowl of cereal hugged to her chest. Her face was very nearly into that bowl, her dark brown hair in thick tangles, hiding her face.

    He said nothing, just poured himself some more coffee, slid two slices of wheat bread into the long-handled metal toaster, and held it over the woodstove. It only took about two minutes to brown the toast on each side. He sat down in one of the two kitchen chairs, straddling the back. The other one was still shoved beneath the back doorknob.

    It came to him quite clearly at that moment that he wasn't about to give her over to strangers. She was his responsibility and he willingly shouldered it. No, he couldn't begin to imagine what they'd do to her in a hospital: doctors, nurses, lab people, all of them poking around, terrifying her, shrinks snowing her dolls and asking what the man had done to her, male doctors not understanding, treating her as if she were like any other little girl, when she wasn't. No, none of that, not now. And then the sheriff would get involved. Well, he would speak to the sheriff, but not just yet. Let her ease a bit more. Let her come to trust him, just a little.

    "Would you like a slice of toast? I've learned how to work this toast holder really well. I haven't burned any bread now for nearly a week."

    The small head shook back and forth. "Okay, I'll eat both slices. If you change your mind, I've got some really good strawberry jam, made right down there in Dillinger by a Mrs. Harper. She's been here for all of her sixty-four years.

    "I've been here for nearly two weeks now. I come from San Francisco. This cabin was built by the grandfather of a friend of mine. He loaned it to me. I've never been here before. It's a beautiful place. Maybe later you can tell me where you come from. I wanted to be alone, to be completely away from everything and everyone, to be isolated, you know what I mean? No, I don't guess you'd have any idea, would you?

    "Who said that life is too much with us? Maybe I did and just forgot. So much stuff can happen to you when you're grown-up, but then you're supposed to be able to handle it. But you're just a little kid. Nothing bad should have happened to you. I'll fix things if I can.

    "But you know," he continued slowly, eyeing the strips of undershirt on her wrists and ankles, thinking of that small battered body, knowing she'd been raped, "I think we should see a doctor, maybe in a couple of days, then we should see the sheriff. I hope Dillinger has a sheriff." The mewling sounds began. She laid the empty cereal

    bowl on the floor beside him and raised her face. She began shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth, the mewling sounds coming from the back of her throat, raw and ugly.

    He felt goose bumps rise on his arms. "You don't want to see a doctor?"

    She pressed hard against the wall, her legs up, the undershirt wrapped around her like a white tent, her head tucked in, and she was rocking.

    "Okay, we won't go anywhere at all. We'll stay right here all safe and snug. I've got lots of food. Did I tell you that I went into Dillinger just two days ago? I got stuff even a kid would like. I've got hot dogs and some of those old-fashioned buns that don't taste like anything, French's mustard, and some baked beans. I cut up onions in the beans, add mustard and some catsup, then put it in a pot on the stove for about twenty minutes. That sounds good, doesn't it?" She stopped rocking.

    Slowly, she turned her face toward him. She pushed back her hair.

    "You like hot dogs?" She nodded.

    "Good. I do too. I bought some of those