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“What else could it be, right? S-so—so—so—” Quinn caught himself, choked down the panicked stutter. “So it’ll be okay.” The thought of some explanation, any explanation, no matter how weak, seemed to help. “Duh, of course it will be okay. It’ll totally be okay.”
“Astrid’s house next,” Sam said. “She’s closest.”
“You know where I live?” Astrid asked.
This would not be a good time to admit that he had followed her home once, intending to try to talk to her, maybe ask her to go to a movie, but had lost his nerve. Sam shrugged. “I probably saw you sometime.”
It was a ten-minute walk to Astrid’s home, a two-story, kind-of-new house with a pool in the back. Astrid wasn’t rich, but her house was much nicer than Sam’s. It reminded Sam of the house he used to live in before his stepfather left. His stepfather hadn’t been rich, either, but he’d had a good job.
Sam felt weird being in Astrid’s home. Everything in it seemed nice and a little fancy. But everything was put away. There was nothing out that could be broken. The tables had little plastic cushions on the corners. The electrical sockets had childproof covers. In the kitchen the knives were in a glass-front cupboard with a childproof lock on the handle. There were kid-proof knobs on the stove.
Astrid noticed him noticing. “It’s not for me,” she said snippily. “It’s for Little Pete.”
“I know. He’s…” He didn’t know the right word.
“He’s autistic,” Astrid said, very breezy, like it was no big thing. “Well, no one here,” she announced. Her tone said she’d expected it, and it was fine.
“Where’s your brother?” Sam asked.
Astrid yelled then, something he hadn’t known she could do. “I don’t know, all right? I don’t know where he is.” She covered her mouth with one hand.
“Call to him,” Quinn suggested in a strange, carefully enunciated, formal voice. He was embarrassed by his freak-out. But at the same time, he wasn’t quite done freaking out.
“Call to him? He won’t answer,” Astrid said through gritted teeth. “He’s autistic. Severely. He doesn’t…he doesn’t relate. He won’t answer, all right? I can yell his name all day.”
“It’s okay, Astrid. We’re going to make sure,” Sam said. “If he’s here, we’ll find him.”
Astrid nodded and fought back tears.
They searched the house inch by inch. Under the beds. In the closets.
They went across the street to the home of a lady who sometimes took care of Little Pete. There was no one home there, either. They searched every room. Sam felt like a burglar.
“He must be with my mom, or maybe my dad took him to the plant with him. He does that when there’s no one else to babysit.” Sam heard desperation in her voice.
Maybe half an hour had passed since the sudden disappearance. Quinn was still weird. Astrid seemed about to fall apart. It wasn’t even lunchtime but already Sam was wondering about night. The days were short, it was November 10, almost Thanksgiving. Short days, long nights.
“Let’s keep moving,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about Little Pete. We’ll find him.”
“Is that meant to be a pro forma reassurance or a specific commitment?” Astrid asked.
“Sorry?”
“No, I’m sorry. I meant, you’ll help me find Petey?” Astrid asked.
“Sure.” Sam wanted to add that he would help her anywhere, anytime, forever, but that was just his own fear talking, making him want to babble. Instead, he started toward his own house, knowing now beyond doubt what he would find, but needing to check, anyway, and to check something else, too. Needing to see if he was crazy.
Needing to see if it was still there.
This was all crazy. But for Sam, the crazy had started long before.
For the hundredth time Lana craned her head to look back and check on her dog.
“He’s fine. Stop fretting,” Grandpa Luke said.
“He could jump out.”
“He’s dumb, all right. But I don’t think he’ll jump out.”
