Chapter Two

  We didn’t notice right away.

  That delay mattered more than anything else. We reached familiar ground in uneven pieces, breathless and scattered, bodies arriving before our thoughts could settle. Someone laughed too loudly, as if noise alone could put things back where they belonged. Another person started talking without saying anything useful.

  For a moment, it worked.

  Then someone asked a question that didn’t sound important at first.

  “Where is he?”

  The words didn’t stop us immediately. They hovered, waiting to be understood. People looked around, counting loosely, assuming he’d taken a different route, that he’d show up annoyed we’d even noticed.

  Seconds passed.

  Then longer.

  Names were called — casually at first, then sharper. Someone jogged back part of the way, slowing as the ground changed underfoot. They didn’t go far. No one suggested they should.

  The place we’d run from didn’t need to be named for everyone to know where it was.

  Adults arrived quickly once panic found its footing. Doors opened. Lights came on. Voices layered over each other, urgent but careful, the sound of people trying not to make things worse.

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  Questions came fast.

  What happened

  Did you see anything

  Is anyone hurt

  We tried to answer, but nothing came out cleanly. Everything felt out of order, like we were explaining the aftermath before the moment itself had finished happening.

  Adults exchanged looks.

  They filled the gaps for us.

  They said he must have panicked. That kids sometimes ran without thinking and didn’t know how to come back right away. That fear did strange things when it spread.

  They asked again what we saw.

  No one had an answer that held.

  Search lights cut through the trees near the water, breaking the dark into sections that didn’t quite line up. Adults moved carefully, testing ground before committing weight to it. They called his name and waited, listening to how it disappeared instead of how it returned.

  They didn’t go far.

  Eventually, someone said they’d widen the search later. That there was no reason to assume the worst. The words were delivered confidently, like that alone could make them true.

  We were told to go inside.

  Doors closed. Curtains were drawn. The night continued as if it hadn’t noticed the difference.

  Sleep came poorly.

  I lay awake longer than I meant to, noticing every shift in the house. Things that had always been background now felt separate, isolated, like interruptions instead of atmosphere.

  I kept replaying the space between moments — not what had happened, but the pause afterward, the way everything had hesitated before moving again.

  By morning, the absence had settled into something solid.

  Adults spoke calmly. They said he still hadn’t been found but that it didn’t mean anything yet. They reminded us to stay close, to avoid shortcuts, to take longer routes if needed.

  They didn’t say why.

  They didn’t say what had changed.

  But everyone moved differently after that.

  As if there were now places you could stand and feel exactly how much room someone else had left behind.