I replace them with the vision of her sleeping.
We were all given time to make a quick visit to her hospital room. Despite her breathing on her own, there were still a litany of cords and tubes and a chorus of beeps and hums, and bandages covered her skin where she’d been bitten by the mice and insects and otherwise injured.
As I stood there with Mom beside me, I thought of what Dad said. He said she looked good, like she was sleeping. If I could ignore the surroundings, his statement was true. Her eyes were closed, not filled with anguish, terror, or shock.
Peaceful.
It is the word I hung onto throughout the night.
After consuming the third shot, I checked my phone. Usually, I was more responsive. Yesterday hadn’t been usual in any sense of the word. When I went to the search on the McKenna farm, I turned off my phone and placed it in my purse, unwilling to allow the notifications of the world to interrupt my goal of helping to find Julie.
As the screen came to life, I saw that I had missed calls from Becky, Echo, and Liam. I also had a text from Echo saying she wanted to talk to me on Monday to discuss my progress and one from Becky asking about Julie.
I texted Becky and told her I was finally back from the hospital, that Julie was stable, and we would know more in the future. I also asked about Marty.
When I fell asleep, she hadn’t yet replied.
Now that I’m awake, with my legs curled under me on the large Adirondack chair and my steaming mug of coffee on a small wooden table to my side, I again bring the screen to life, checking for responses.
Two text messages fromBecky Harrison. Maybe it was time to change her last name to Sanders. Married over five years. I shouldconsider it.
Text message 1: (received at 11:08 p.m., last night)
“GLAD YOU’RE BACKAND JULIE IS STABLE. NO LEAD ON MARTY. THE TOWN CONTINUED SEARCHING UNTIL NIGHTFALL. SCHOOL IS CANCELED FOR TOMORROW. ANYONE WHO CAN WILL BE GATHERING AT MCKENNA’S FARM TOMORROW AT 9 IF YOU CAN BE THERE.”
Text message 2:(received at 6:47 a.m., this morning)
‘I’M SORRY.I SHOULDN’T HAVE MENTIONED THE SEARCH. YOU DON’T NEED TO COME. I’M SURE YOU’LL BE AT THE HOSPITAL. GIVE SHANNON A HUG FOR ME. I’LL LET YOU KNOW IF WE LEARN ANYTHING.”
Laying the phone down,I pick up the warm mug of coffee. Before lifting it to my lips, I look up at the trees reaching toward the bluing sky. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the chair and block out my thoughts; instead, I listen.
The happenings of the last day seem unreal—fictional. If it were, I would be the one assisting in the particulars that make it appear believable.
My thoughts go to the least of my concerns, the specific details of the world immediatelyaround me. There is undoubtedly a peaceful rhythm in nature that calms the soul. I peer up again at the branches flexing in the gentle breeze.
Some of the tallest trees around Stark Lake have been in place for centuries. Their roots reach deep into the fertile soil, giving them the strength to withstand the violent winds of tornados, cracking strikes of lightning, and invasive infiltration of insects. These same trees provide homes for birds and vermin, shade for the weary, and even sap for the hungry.
As I lift the ceramic mug, the hairs on my arms and at the nape of my neck stand to attention; like lightning rods, they’re alerting me to a change. Twigs snap and rotting leaves crunch until I’m no longer alone. Pulling the blanket tighter around me, I stand.
A man I don’t recognize comes to a stop near the porch steps.
Standing nearly four feet above him, I make a mental note.
Medium height. Dark blond hair, wide shoulders, and a mug of coffee in his grip. The thought that this man could be the one who hurt my sister quickly disappears with his attire. His pants are soft and covered in large green and gold Gs. His hoodie is solid green with Green Bay Packers on the front. Upon his feet, he’s wearing canvas loafers.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice is deep, reverberating through the morning air in a nonthreatening tone.
My gaze narrows as I force a smile. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I saw your car. Your plates aren’t from Mills County. From one outsider to the other, I thought it might be nice to talk to someone. If you don’t mind.”
I pull the blanket tighter. “I-I...” The urge to tell this man that I’m not really an outsider disappears as quickly as the thought occurs. Maybe now I am an outsider.
His facial expression softens, his dark eyes morphing to a shade of milk chocolate as he takes a step forward, closer to the edge of the steps. “I apologize. I should have led with an introduction. I’m Keith and usually more polite. It’s been a rough few weeks.” His head tilts. “I’m not from around here. I live up north.”
I immediately know who he is.
He’s Keith Gilbert, Craig Gilbert’s brother.
