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“You ready?”
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod.
Rhett pulls two small flashlights from his pocket, hands one to me and keeps the other for himself. I wonder how much of his $600 he’s already spent.
We have to squat and waddle through the opening of the cave. It’s a rock sandwich, with us in the middle. However, once inside, the cave opens up into a large room, about eight feet tall. The air is cold, moist, and smells like mold and dirt. The walls are covered in spray paint. Gang symbols, anarchy signs, and some explicit paintings that remind me of the story I once reported on of kids spray-painting penises on school property. At the end of the room is a tunnel, pitch black.
I can hear a distant echo of voices.
My pulse begins to thrum.
Rhett steps into the tunnel, no hesitation, no fear of the unknown. I wonder what it’s like to have that much confidence.
The cave begins to close in around us as we slowly walk through the tunnel, eventually becoming so narrow that we have to turn our bodies sideways to make it through.
All of a sudden:
“Hey.”
The voice is close and whoever it is must have seen our lights bouncing off the walls ahead of us.
Rhett doesn’t answer, nor stop.
My legs suddenly feel like rubber underneath me.
The tunnel opens up to another room where at least a half dozen teenagers sit in a circle around a campfire of flashlights. My mouth drops. The large room looks like someone’s backyard, except in a cave. There are folding chairs, even a few lounge-style lawn chairs, a plastic table packed with canned food, coolers, cases of cheap beer, backpacks. A blow-up mattress in the corner. Magazines are stacked everywhere, as well as bags of trash.
The pungent scent of pot clings to the wet air.
And then I see it—a black sweatshirt with a skull and crossbones.
17
Sylvia
“I’m here to talk to Jesse Taylor.”
No one answers Rhett. Instead the group slowly stands, one after the other, a slow wave of intimidation.
Six pairs of blood-shot beady eyes glower at Rhett and me, leaving no question that we are unwelcome here.
The group consists of all boys, ranging from sixteen to twenty, I guess—aside from Jesse, who, standing in the shadows, looks even older than his twenty-eight years. The runaway looks pale, significantly skinnier than in the photos splashed all over the news.
Two of the boys are unquestionably brothers, possibly even twins, with sandy blonde hair and tall, lean bodies. Both wear tie-dye T-shirts and harem pants. Their skin is pale and sallow, lips dry and cracked. It isn’t a stretch to imagine that these two indulge in more than just the occasional joint. Come to think of it, everyone in the group is skinny, suggesting food has not been as easy to come by as drugs.
What a life.
The others share the same disgruntled expressions on their skeletal faces. One is shirtless, proudly displaying a chest full of tattoos. One, a swastika.
I wonder if they are all missing teens like Jesse, or runaways, or perhaps simply have parents who don’t care.
Which is worse?
I pity them, in that moment, every single one of them. On a very deep level, I understand their plights.
All eyes are fixed on Rhett, except for Jesse’s. Unlike the others, Jesse appears to be alert, not high. He is staring at me, his expression a mixture of surprise and confusion. He recognizes me. There is no question now that Jesse is the one who delivered the letters to my doorstep.
“You a cop?” one of the twins ask Rhett.
