He puts a bag of snacks and drinks down on the floor outside the tub, tosses me a pillow and blanket, and then crouches down, resting his elbows on his scarred knees. “Don’t worry,” he tells me, his dark, rough voice soothing away some of my anxiety, “we’ll get him.” His smile gets a little sharper, a little scarier. “And he’ll wish he’d never been born.”
