Kyra didn’t keep her head down. She didn’t fit in.
She’s crazy. The words followed her wherever she went. In the conservative, white world of Lost, standing out was a mortal sin. When she came to school, the other juniors and seniors in our class would slide their desks away from us. They’d invite me over for hot chocolate after class, but never her. They’d steal her books. They’d throw her homework—and sometimes the essays she wrote on storytelling—into White Wolf Lake.
She kept her head held high. She never let me yell at them. And she never let anyone but me see how much their cruelty hurt her.
She’s crazy. Batshit. Insane. Nuts. A freak.
The people of Lost Creek had a particular affinity for that last word. Freak. It floated around her, spoken in hatred and whispered in fear.
And fear was the worst part. Too often, people who’d known her since she was a baby, who’d watched her grow up, would talk about her as if she were a threat. And they weren’t even subtle about it.
They wanted her gone.
“Joe, I’ve heard about a good residential treatment center in Fairbanks. It might be better for your daughter there,” Mr. Lucas would say.
“We’ve been over this a million times. No,” Mr. Henderson would reply.
“You have to understand it from my point of view. Kyra goes to the same school as my daughters.”
“And she has since they were all toddlers.”
“But now she has this diagnosis. What if something happens? What if—”
“What could possibly happen?”
“What if she sna—what if she has one of her episodes?”
“When she has one of her episodes, she paints. Do you think your daughters are in danger from Kyra’s crafts?”
But that, of course, wasn’t Mr. Lucas’s point. It was never anyone’s point. They weren’t worried about the creative ways Kyra burned off energy; they were worried about her escapades. When her manic episodes overwhelmed her, she became unstoppable. She could lose herself in the woods for days. Once, she snuck to the river and dumped the fishermen’s catch back into the water. Another time, she ventured down the closed mine, and it took our parents the better part of a day and a night to find her.
The people of Lost were worried because they had seen her vanish. They were convinced that she’d drag one of them along, and that they’d stray too far. That they, too, would disappear in the dangerous terrain outside of Lost. But she wouldn’t do that. Kyra pushed everyone away during those episodes. Even me.
So Mr. H would willfully misunderstand the community’s remarks. Eventually, out of respect for him and his status as the owner of the mine, they’d concede that, of course, they were only worried about Kyra’s welfare.
But every time she overheard one of those conversations, Kyra would stare at me with tears in her eyes. The first time it happened, I tried to explain the town’s fear, but she challenged it. We were sitting in her window seat, and she tensed all over, her cheeks turning pink with frustration. The second time, she ran away.
I’d lost count of the incidents since then, but this time, she was still in flight mode when she asked me, “I’m not enough, am I?”
“You should never settle for ‘enough.’” I hoped that hearing the same words she’d told me would make her feel braver.
“You know, a couple of centuries ago, I would’ve been called a witch.” She clung to her windowsill, as if to stop herself from running away from all of us, and all of this. “They would’ve burned me at the stake.”
“I wouldn’t have let them.”
“Do you think I should go? To the treatment center in Fairbanks?”
“Only if you want to. Only if you think it’ll help. But not because the rest of the town has forgotten who you really are. If that’s the only reason, I’d rather you stay here with me.”
“I want to feel better. I want to get these episodes under control.” Her shoulders drooped. “I want to belong here, like you and Luke do.”
I stared at her for the longest time. The setting sun cast her face in an orange glow, making her hair look auburn and her hazel eyes almost green. I loved Lost, because it was the only home I’d ever known, but I hated how the town had treated her since she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder a year before. It was as if, overnight, they’d decided that she was no longer the girl they knew, but a danger. “I want you to feel better. I want you to belong too.”
“Why is everyone so afraid of me?”
“Because you’re unpredictable.” Like spring storms and inaccessible mines. “In Lost, unpredictability has never been good.”
Strangers, Traitors, Ghosts
I open the door and jump out of the plane as soon as we land on the narrow strip. The concrete shocks my knees and I stretch in the freezing cold air. I expect to find Mr. Henderson’s 4x4 waiting for me, or Sheriff Flynn, maybe. Instead, a lone figure stands against the rising sun. With the light at her back, I can only see her silhouette—a tall, gangly figure whose long hair dances in the wind. She raises a hesitant hand.
My heart skips a beat. Kyra. Without thinking, I start toward her, her name on the tip of my tongue.
Then the light clears. Her nose is smaller. Her hair lighter.
And the shout of recognition dies in my throat.
Piper Morden.
Not Kyra.
I forgot. Now I ache to forget again.
Behind me, the pilot disembarks. He grabs my backpack and hands it to me. “Your return flight is booked. Be here on time. See you in five days.”
So little time, but it has to be enough. “I’ll make sure of it. Thank you.”
The man hesitates, then says, “Be careful in Lost Creek. Not everything is as it seems here.”
Before I can reply with a simple, I know. We’ve always gone our own way, he turns on his heels with military precision and stalks back to the plane. I head toward Piper, who smirks. Plenty of people don’t understand our closed community, our way of living. We’re all used to odd comments like these.
Piper wraps her arms around me. She’s never done so before, but I cling to her. She’s strong and familiar. She smells of winter and home. “Hey, big city girl.”
“Hey.”
“How was your flight?”
“It was good. Quiet. Early.” Strange.
“I can only imagine.” Her smile fades. “Mr. H has a business meeting, so he asked me to pick you up. We’re glad you’re here. Kyra would’ve liked that.”
That’s new. These last few years, Piper never considered Kyra’s feelings, and now that she’s dead doesn’t seem like the right time to start.
I sling my backpack over my shoulders, wondering how to phrase this question without sounding accusatory. “What can I expect here, Piper? I know Kyra wasn’t exactly…loved.”
Piper stiffens as if I’d slapped her. Then she flicks a wayward lock of hair out of her face. “Do you think us so cold that we wouldn’t mourn her?”
“No, but—”
“Things changed after you left.”
“Nothing ever changes in Lost Creek,” I say, out of habit. The only way to mark the passage of time here is by the aging of the children. They grow older, as they’re meant to, every birthday the start of a new year. The adults somehow appear to stop aging, and the elderly stop counting the years altogether.
Piper’s mouth quirks up, twisting her face into a harsh grimace. “Never mind. You’ll come to understand.”
“Understand what?” I ask, but Piper has already turned away from me.
“We take care of our own here. You ought to know that.”
I trek after her and regret not changing into my bunny boots. My sneakers are fit for traveling, but not for withstanding miles of snow. The cold bites.