I was on my way to a parent teacher interview with my son Billy’s teacher when I ran into the young boy. He was sitting in a chair on the porch of an old white bungalow just a half a block from the school. He waved at me and said “Hello, Mrs. Danaher!”

I waved back, although I didn’t recognize him. He said “I’m friends with Billy.” I hesitated because I had not met this boy before, and we live in a fairly small town. I said “Well, it’s nice to meet you. What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Martins. Billy and I are in the same class.”

“Well, Nick. I hate to rush, but I’m just on my way to meet with your teacher Mr. Atkinson.”

“Okay. It was nice to meet you!”

“It was nice to meet you too, Nick.”

“Tell Billy I’ll be in the basement.”

That last thing struck me as an odd thing to say, but I imagined my son would know what it meant.

I was running late, and when I got there my husband and Mr. Atkinson were already talking. My husband grew up in this town, and Mr. Atkinson, who was close to retirement, had worked at the school when he went there.

“Sorry I’m late” I said as I kissed my husband on the cheek and took a chair next to him.

“Oh, no worries” said Mr. Atkinson. “William and I were just reminiscing”.

My husband smiled. “I’m afraid Nicky and I used to give Mr. Atkinson a hard time when we were younger.”

I laughed. “That’s weird. I just met one of Billy’s friends down the street. His name is Nick as well. Nick Martins”.

A disturbing silence fell over my husband and Mr. Atkinson as they both stared intently at me. “You met a boy? Named Nicholas Martins?” my husband asked.

“Yeah…” I said hestitantly.

“Did he say anything?” asked Mr. Atkinson, slowly.

“Not really” I said. “I was in a bit of a rush. He just told me to tell Billy that he’ll be in the basement.”

“Where did you run into him?” asked my husband.

“He was outside the old white bungalow just down the street.”

My husband turned and he and Mr. Atkinson stared at each other.

“What’s going on?” I asked, exasperated. “Who is Nicholas?”

My husband kept his eyes on Mr. Atkinson. “Nick Martins was my best friend” he told me. “Up until he disappeared in the third grade.”

A long silence followed until my husband finally spoke again.

“Mr. Atkinson, what are we going to find in your basement?”I was on my way to a parent teacher interview with my son Billy’s teacher when I ran into the young boy. He was sitting in a chair on the porch of an old white bungalow just a half a block from the school. He waved at me and said “Hello, Mrs. Danaher!”

I waved back, although I didn’t recognize him. He said “I’m friends with Billy.” I hesitated because I had not met this boy before, and we live in a fairly small town. I said “Well, it’s nice to meet you. What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Martins. Billy and I are in the same class.”

“Well, Nick. I hate to rush, but I’m just on my way to meet with your teacher Mr. Atkinson.”

“Okay. It was nice to meet you!”

“It was nice to meet you too, Nick.”

“Tell Billy I’ll be in the basement.”

That last thing struck me as an odd thing to say, but I imagined my son would know what it meant.

I was running late, and when I got there my husband and Mr. Atkinson were already talking. My husband grew up in this town, and Mr. Atkinson, who was close to retirement, had worked at the school when he went there.

“Sorry I’m late” I said as I kissed my husband on the cheek and took a chair next to him.

“Oh, no worries” said Mr. Atkinson. “William and I were just reminiscing”.

My husband smiled. “I’m afraid Nicky and I used to give Mr. Atkinson a hard time when we were younger.”

I laughed. “That’s weird. I just met one of Billy’s friends down the street. His name is Nick as well. Nick Martins”.

A disturbing silence fell over my husband and Mr. Atkinson as they both stared intently at me. “You met a boy? Named Nicholas Martins?” my husband asked.

“Yeah…” I said hestitantly.

“Did he say anything?” asked Mr. Atkinson, slowly.

“Not really” I said. “I was in a bit of a rush. He just told me to tell Billy that he’ll be in the basement.”

“Where did you run into him?” asked my husband.

“He was outside the old white bungalow just down the street.”

My husband turned and he and Mr. Atkinson stared at each other.

“What’s going on?” I asked, exasperated. “Who is Nicholas?”

My husband kept his eyes on Mr. Atkinson. “Nick Martins was my best friend” he told me. “Up until he disappeared in the third grade.”

A long silence followed until my husband finally spoke again.

“Mr. Atkinson, what are we going to find in your basement?”