Two nights ago our doorbell rang around 8:20. It was our sort-of-next-door neighbor (our street has a funny shape), wanting his son (C) to come home since it was kind of past his bedtime.
We'd sent his son home an hour ago.
In fact, C had left to go finish his dinner (pizza rolls) so quickly that he'd left his bike in our garage. Bird had walked it to his house before she'd gotten ready for bed.
Husband, being much, much more confident (looking) in the face of things that look bad, went straight to Bird's room. She was still awake, so he could ask her a few questions.
H: Bird, when you took C's bike back, where did you put it?
B: I gave it to C.
H: You did? Where was he?
B: In front of his house.
H: Did you talk to him?
B: Yes, but then he got in the car.
(This is where my heart began to pound. Really pound. It took all of my willpower to not jump into the conversation at this point.)
H: Really? Was anyone else in the car?
B: Yes, I (another neighbor boy) got into the car too.
H: So they were both in the car?
B: Yes. I said goodbye to them.
H: Was there someone driving the car?
B: Yes. I's mommy.
Turns out that C went to church with the other neighbors without telling his parents first. As I was relaying the story to the father, another neighbor reached the woman at church and confirmed that C was, in fact, with them.
Thankfully, this night had a happy ending.