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There’s an uneasy silence, and then he says slowly, “Keep your phone on. I’m gonna call you in an hour just to make sure you’re all right, and then...”
His voice trails off.
Not because he stopped talking, but because I’m not listening anymore.
I hear something.
My attention zeros in on a faint sound past the steady plinking of the rain on the leaves and the forest floor, completely tuning Langley out, my breath frozen in anticipation.
There it is again.
A tiny squeak.
“Hold up,” I whisper at Langley. “I think I hear something.”
“What? But it could be—”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hang up on him mid-sentence, stow my phone, and close my eyes, shutting out every other sense and straining to hear that sound again over the sound of my thundering pulse.
There!
Not a squeak.
A cat’s wailing meow.
Sure, Heart’s Edge has a few strays, but I doubt any of them would be out here, mewling sad demands to no one.
I can only hope.
I can’t even let myself finish the thought.
Opening my eyes, I pivot toward that sound and go plunging into the brush. If it was a bobcat or even a feral stray, I’d catch a snatch of fur streaking away, the flash of reflective eyes, but that sound just grows louder.
It tells me the beast I’m charging toward must be used to humans.
I’m betting it has to be Mozart or Van Gogh.
And considering how much that overfed pumpkin loves my son, I’m pounding the dirt, dashing onward, catching myself a few times before I slip.
Sure enough, I glimpse orange-creamsicle fur before I fully break out of the clinging, scratching brush.
There he is: scraggly, wet, his fur stuck to him in soggy tufts.
Mozart’s hunched into himself under a thick tree canopy that lends him some small protection from the rain. He’s huddled in the pit where two spreading roots meet at the base of a tree. Underneath the matted layer of loamy rotting ground cover there’s a sort of shelf overhanging a hole in the ground.
There’s something in there.
It’s just a kaleidoscope of colors from here, but I catch skin, pink cloth, the reflective stripe of a sneaker.
A harsh sound nearly brays out of my throat.
Stumbling across the clearing, I fall down on my knees next to a hollow collapsed into the ground. Looks like its walls are held together by the sunken roots of a leaning, ancient fir.
And inside?
Eli.
Sound asleep, curled up into a boyish knot and wrapped protectively around Tara, who sleeps with her head against his chest and one leg stuck out. I notice right away it’s unnaturally straight and stiff with the torn hem of Eli’s shirt wound tight around it.
Christ, maybe animals can talk.
Because Mozart damned well led me to my son, and when this is over, that cat’s gonna end up so stuffed on fish he won’t be able to walk for a week.
I don’t know if I sob so much as the sound gets punched out of me, relief as potent as shrapnel wrecking my entire body, my feelings, my head as I reach for them, grasping their arms and shaking them gently.
“Eli? Eli! Tara, you awake? You’re okay, guys. You’re okay, Eli, Eli...”
Tara starts awake first, slowly, groaning and rubbing sleepily at her eyes.
Eli rockets up with a gasp a second later, blinking, his arms tightening around her as he looks around. Then his eyes land on me, clearing in recognition.
“Dad!” he shouts, flinging himself out of the hollow at me.
Suddenly I’ve got my arms full of a very upset boy, both of us getting drenched in the rain while Tara pushes herself up on her arms and watches us with a small, tired smile.
I press my face into Eli’s wet hair, hugging him so tight I’m fit to snap him in half.
His nails dig into my shoulders.
I can feel him shaking, trying to be brave, trying not to cry.
I don’t have those kinds of reservations.
Fuck, what happened? What happened to my boy and his friend?
I’m not ashamed of a few hot tears slipping out in sheer relief, blending with the rain spotting my face.
My son’s fine—they’re both fine—and he’s here in my arms again.
Tara’s looking none the worse for wear except maybe a sprain.
“Dad,” he keeps repeating. “Dad, Dad, Dad...”
“Hi, Mr. Charter,” Tara says shyly, waving. “Sorry if we scared you.”
Eli jerks away from me, looking back at her, then at me with burning desperation. “Dad, Tara’s hurt. She needs a hospital—”
“I don’t need a hospital,” Tara says primly. “I would’ve been fine if you’d have let me make a crutch with a branch.”
I almost want to laugh. The joy inside me is so big, threatening to burst out.
“What happened?” I ask. “How’d you guys wind up this far out? Why didn’t you call?”
Eli looks down sheepishly.
“Um...my phone died from taking too many pictures and video clips,” he says. “And then we couldn’t get a signal on Tara’s, and without GPS, we got turned around. The maps don’t show anything out here unless you’ve got data. So we tried climbing high in a tree to get like a signal or figure out where we were, but...”
