Greta’s look is so pointed it almost draws blood. “Josh?”
Right.
“Yeah. I’ll go look for him.” I’m already backing toward the door. Greta’s eyelids fall closed again. “Call if you need something.”
As soon as I leave the lodge, I scan what I can see of the property. No sign of Josh by the lake. We call it the lake. It’s really a big pond. Big enough for kayaks and paddle boards. A floating dock. Deep enough for swimming and diving.
But the covered dock looks empty from here. The two kayaks we brought with us are tied to the cleats.
He could be in the big shed, but it doesn’t look like the lights are on. I don’t see why he’d be in his cabin, but that’s the closest place, so I head there first.
We have plans for a landscaped gravel and flagstone path between the cabins, but right now, it’s just a footpath we’ve made through the grass since we’ve been here. Luckily, the spot where the lodge and cabins are drains well, so even when it rains, it’s just a little damp, not soggy.
When I reach their cabin, I try to peek through the windows on either side of the door, but the curtains must be drawn. I knock.
“Hey Josh?”
Nothing.
I knock again.
He must not be there. The cabin is just one room and a half-functioning bathroom. It’s not like he couldn’t hear me if he were in there. So I set off for the shed.
I can’t imagine he’s in the woods or along the river. If he is, what the hell is he doing?
We have plans to build a boardwalk along the bank of the Vermilion, and we’ll do a high ropes course in a clearing of the woods and with a zipline, but those are further down the list of our projects. After we build six more cabins and a changing room/restroom complex.
By the time I reach the shed, I’m sweating all over again. I’ve been able to tune out the heat while we’re fence-building, but either it’s more oppressive this afternoon, or I’m more aware of it after what happened to Greta.
But I’m glad for the shade of the big shed. It’s more like a high ceilinged barn. Except instead of housing animals, it’s home to a riding mower, the Polaris, all of manner of power tools—chainsaws, table saw, planer, electric sander—sacks of deer corn and mulch, our mountain bikes, and storage bins full of whatever we want to keep but can’t fit into our cabins.
All of that is here.
But not Josh.
“Fuck.”
I leave the shed and take out my phone to call him again, but this time the call goes straight to voicemail.
What the hell?
He hasn’t left. He’s not in the lodge or the shed. He isn’t on the Polaris. Other than looking behind every tree, the only place I haven’t checked ismycabin. I snort a laugh at the thought, but then it occurs to me that maybe he was in the shower in his when I knocked.
I head back to Greta and Josh’s cabin, and this time, when I pound on the door, the sound echoes across the grounds.
Still nothing.
I test the knob. It turns, so I know the door isn’t locked.
“Josh?” I call. “You in there?”
Nothing.
“I’m coming in,” I shout again. Just in case my old friend is having a mid-afternoon wank. With noise-canceling headphones on.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the worst as I push the door wide open.
No cursing. No shriek of horror.
