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As we walked to the bridge, Ron and I ended up walking half a block ahead of Jan and Christy. My employer couldn't walk very quickly, of course, and Christy, in her role as a bodyguard, stayed with her. I walked a bit more quickly, because I wanted to talk to Ron about something I didn't think she'd want to discuss in front of Christy.

"Ron," I said, "I wanted to ask you about your friend Bobby. Does he know where you are? Does he know what happened to you?" She shrugged and shook her head. "Because I had an idea. And I was thinking you could write him a letter. Then he'd know where you are and that you're okay."

This possibility had never occurred to her. "I don't know the address," she said slowly.

"Do you remember the street?"

"Oh, sure. But I don't know the number."

"Well, you could go to the library. They usually have phone books. We could try to look it up." She nodded reluctantly, unwilling to get her hopes up. I squeezed her shoulder (briefly, not long enough to be embarrassing – Christy was behind us, after all). "You think your mother couldn't find out an address if she wanted to?"

This had just been a stray thought, but a few minutes later I was glad I'd had it. We were at the foot of the bridge, and they were sitting on the massive piling that blocked the bridge as I went to the pay phone and called the car service. Then I called Stu's office, and his wife answered the phone.

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