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Mom made a small sound.

Dad didn’t move.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I closed my eyes.

His legs. Too straight. His head turned toward the trees.

“He was placed there.”

Riot’s expression changed. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“His legs were wrong. Straight.” I tried to make my hands show them and couldn’t. “And his head was turned. Like he was pointing somewhere.”

“Where?” Dad asked.

I looked toward the woods. Nothing. No recognition. No route. No tree I knew.

No piece of ground that meant anything.

“I don’t know.”

Dad’s jaw tightened. “Do you remember how you got there?”

“No.”

“Do you remember how long you ran before you found him?”

“No.”

“A road? Fence? Creek? Power line? Anything you crossed?”

Water. Mud. A dry wash. Trees.

Running. More trees.

“I don’t know.”

Dad rubbed a hand over his face.

“I was just there.”

“I know.”

“There’s no way to find him, is there?”

“We’re going to try, but no, it doesn’t seem likely without any direction or landmarks.” His tone stayed gentle.

Riot looked toward the search coordinator.

“We can keep teams out and widen the grid,” he said. “But we don’t know her route.”

Dad nodded.