I push myself away from the building and collapse against my backpack, strangely relieved to have my clothes with me. At school, they taught us how to handle fire drills—to leave coats and bags and other belongings behind. But I cling to the few familiar things I have left.
I brace myself for another coughing fit. I would shout for help again, but everything hurts. Besides, we have no proper fire department in town. What could anyone do? The blaze is beyond the reach of a fire extinguisher or makeshift brigade. But the town always sticks together in moments like these. We cling to solidarity, even when there is no hope.
They’ll be here any moment now, I tell myself.
I close my eyes as the world around me spins. I breathe in the night air and wait for the cold to numb the pain.
The Hendersons’ house remains dark and still. I try to shout, but I can’t. I try to get up to run, but I can’t. I want to cry, but I can’t.
The only movement I see is the flames licking at the roof. Nothing else.
Only when I finally struggle to my feet do I find a crowd gathered in the side yard. Lost is here. Watching. Waiting. Silent.
At the forefront stands Mr. H. He stares at me, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. He doesn’t move to help me. He doesn’t move at all.
In his hands, he holds Kyra’s scarf. The scarf that had been tucked inside my backpack.
Day Four
Where Do We Go From Here?
I might as well be a ghost, because no one pays attention to me. They don’t aid me, they don’t try to stop me when I stumble out of the yard. It’s like I don’t exist anymore. I can’t stay in this town.
I walk in a daze. The woods aren’t safe at night, even with a path to follow, but Lost isn’t safe anymore either. I need a sanctuary. It is what it is.
I cough again and it feels as though I’m breathing liquid fire.
I don’t know how much time passes. I don’t even know if time passes at all or if the world moves without me, but eventually I stagger into the spa. Moonlight filters in through the tall windows, and the entrance hall is clad in shadows. I still don’t have a flashlight to light the way. Even if I still had my phone, it’d be melted plastic and glass. I always thought I knew this place so well I could find my way around blindfolded, but now that I’m inside, navigating in the dark is difficult.
I feel my way to the staircase and stumble upstairs. I can’t stop shivering.
Reaching the landing, I start toward Kyra’s room, but I can’t stay there. Not tonight.
My footsteps echo. The hotel breathes around me, but I hold my breath. A sigh tickles the back of my neck.
I shudder. “Who’s there?”
The floorboards creak. But I can’t see anyone. I trail my hand along the wall until I reach a doorpost. The first door doesn’t open. The second door doesn’t either. I don’t want to know what lies behind them. The third door opens. I nearly sob in relief when I find a window and moonlight streaming in. It’s not much light, but it’s enough. I can see an ancient bed in the far corner.
I don’t even care about not having blankets. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, and I’ll wrap myself in my parka to stay warm.
I lie down on the bed and cradle my backpack. I stare into the darkness of the hall. I don’t dare close the door, because I don’t want to lock myself in, but the emptiness is unnerving. I’m sure that as soon as I take my eyes from the doorway, someone will appear in the darkness.
Is this how Kyra felt when she stayed here?
I remember her words, written on the walls of her room. They’re watching. The shadows, Corey. They’re always watching.
I thought she’d meant the shadows and haunts of this building. I never stopped to think “they” may have been real. But if so, who were they? Her parents? Her petitioners? All of Lost?
Lost stood by and would have let me burn. They would’ve been happy to watch her die too.
Note from Kyra to Corey unsent It started so innocuously: a painting of your brother and a wounded bird. At least, I think that’s where it started. I can’t remember who called it magical first.
Do you still have it?
I know you loved it, but I wish you had let me destroy it.
This isn’t my story.
Polar Twilight
The night passes slowly. By early morning, I’m so tired I doze off, my arms still wrapped around my backpack. I dream of fire and heat, but when I wake, the room is freezing cold. The shadows have yet to dissipate, and whenever I turn from the door, I feel the darkness creeping closer. It’s like the walls have eyes. They’re always watching, Kyra wrote.
I used to love that Lost is surrounded by nothing but nature for miles. It made us learn to be self-sufficient, self-reliant. Or so I thought.
All I want now is a friend.
I want Kyra to be here, to tell me, The shadows can’t harm you. They won’t hurt you. She was the storyteller of the two of us, and I am only weaving nightmares.
She would tease me, make me laugh to stop the fear from settling in. She would stay with me while I’m too afraid to move. She would make me feel strong enough to leave this place.
I miss her. And I want to go home.
Outside, the dark blues of twilight grow lighter.
I change into cleaner clothes—though everything of mine smells of smoke—and settle into one of the armchairs in the entryway. I have granola bars in my backpack. I have Kyra’s portable heater. I have air in my lungs.
I’m not alone. Kyra’s paintings and sketches surround me, and I can’t stop leafing through them. Most are scenes I’ve never seen, of the private lives of the people of Lost. Some depict moments I’ve lived. Kyra and I skinny-dipping in the lake. Two little girls fishing, sitting side by side, arms around each other’s shoulders. And eventually, Kyra alone, in this very same chair, surrounded by paintings.
I hug the papers close.
The first colonial settlers in Lost found that winter is not malleable, and frost settles too, Kyra once told me. And no matter how hard they tried, they could not escape being lost… And they could not escape Lost.
I always thought those were two separate things, but now I understand they’re really not.
Night Swimming
Three Years Before
We slept, curled together on her bed. Or rather, she lay awake while I slept. Well past midnight, the mattress shook as she climbed over me, then left the room. I didn’t think anything of it and was fading back to sleep when I heard the door open and shut. Where is Kyra going?
I wrapped myself in a coat, slipped on shoes, and followed her outside.
The river had broken up a few weeks before, but snow still covered the ground, so I could easily trace her footprints. That was my first sign that something was wrong—it didn’t look like she was wearing shoes.
I picked up my pace and ran after her, but she had a head start. And by the time I reached the shores of the lake, she’d already waded in.
I screamed, “Kyra!” And again, “Help!”
Up to her waist in the water, Kyra didn’t turn or acknowledge my presence.
I discarded my coat and carefully walked in her direction. The edge of the lake was shallow and still frozen. The ice crackled under my weight, and the water that lapped at my feet was freezing.
I screamed for help again, but Kyra had already pushed off into the deep end. She let herself float, surrounded by chunks of ice. “I want to go swimming, Cor,” she called.
“Come back! You’ll die!”
I waded in farther. Tendrils of cold curved around my calves, and I was shivering. I won’t be able to get to her in time, I panicked. I won’t be able to get to her in time.
I needed help. And I didn’t want to leave her.
But I made my way back to shore, picked up my coat from the snow, and ran to the nearest house to wake Lost.
By the time Mr. Henderson, Sheriff Flynn, and Mom got Kyra out of the water, she was chilled to the bone and hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. Severe hypothermia. Dr. Stevens had her flown to the hospital in Fairbanks. Kyra had nearly died because she’d wanted to go swimming and I hadn’t been able to stop her.