“Are they okay?” Sophie asks, walking up beside me.
“I think so?” I say. “I think they’re just idiots. They have a history.”
Then we hear a voice from behind us that makes even Oliver and Max lift their hands off the ground. “You boys better get your act together. You’re scaring the kids,” it says. We turn to find an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, a navy wool sweater, and high rubber boots strolling toward us. He’s pointing toward the field, and that’s when I realize kids refers to alpacas.
“Sorry, sir.” Max and Oliver stand up immediately, wiping off their knees, like foot soldiers at the attention of their general, which is amusing since this man comes up no higher than their chins. But there’s something about him, an undeniable presence. It makes you listen closely.
The only person who does not seem to be intimidated, of course, is Sophie. “Are you Alfred?” she asks, glancing at the sign that says ALFRED’S ALPACA FARM.
“I am,” Alfred says.
“I like your alpacas.” She smiles, as though complimenting his boots.
“Thank you, young lady.” Alfred smiles back. “Would you be interested in a tour?”
Even though we were on a mission, not one of us says no.
It turns out alpacas are not just fun to look at, they are quite useful. We follow Alfred up over the rolling hill of his property, past his white-shingled farmhouse with a wide wraparound porch, and into a big red barn, while he shares with us the secrets of his trade. We learn that alpaca fiber is three times warmer than wool, and much more fine. We learn there are two types of alpacas—Suri, which come in a range of colors and have curlier locks, and Huacaya, which is the most common breed found in the United States. We all take a turn spinning fiber into yarn at the wheel.
“I made you this,” I hear Oliver tell Sophie under the heavy beams of the barn, holding out a small piece of yarn he just spun. Sophie responds by giggling and walking away, but not before taking the useless piece of yarn with her, and I can’t help but raise my eyebrows at this.
The best part is that we even get to pet an alpaca or two, and I am just bidding good-bye to a sweet one named Mildred when I glance over and see Max, practically nose to nose with another, whispering sweet nothings to it. He catches me smiling and clears his throat, giving it one last swift pat atop its head before walking my way.
“What? We had a connection,” he says.
My heart can’t help but swell at the sight of this Max. This is the Max I know and love. Open and relaxed and happy. I go to rest a hand on his back but pull it away almost instantly, unsure of what’s okay anymore. Max gives me a look I can’t decipher.
I wish things were simpler. That this was just a normal day hanging out with friends at a normal alpaca farm. And Max was my normal boyfriend, who I didn’t dream about. I wish Sophie lived here. I wish I hadn’t seen my dog ride by me on a motorcycle today. I wish we weren’t losing our grip on reality.
We find Alfred, Oliver, and Sophie standing on the porch. Sophie is holding a beautiful cream-colored sweater she just purchased, and Oliver is holding a box of sugar cookies shaped like alpacas.
“I’m sorry, Mildred!” Oliver cries, before biting off one of the alpaca cookie heads. “But you are delicious. What?” he asks between chews when he notices the way I’m looking at him.
“Nothing,” I say, breaking off a sugar cookie alpaca leg as we turn back toward the main road. “I’m just happy. I wish it could stay this way.”
“Why can’t it?” Oliver looks genuinely confused.
“Because things are about to change,” I answer.
“Not if we don’t let them.” Oliver shrugs like it’s all so simple, and I wish it were.
“So, how far are we from the college?” I ask Max as we pile back into the car.
“Only about ten minutes,” he replies, looking at Google Maps on his phone. “So we should have answers in no time.” A feeling of sadness rises up in my throat. After we find Margaret, nothing is going to be the same.
But as we drive through the campus of Wells College, I start to relax. It’s strikingly beautiful, an abundance of pathways weaving around pristine brick buildings and giant leafy trees, and all of it resting atop vast, well-manicured lawns. A perfect little academic haven.
At least, at first.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” Doreen McGinty says between gum snaps over the top of her desk at the faculty center. We already tried Margaret Yang’s office in the biology wing, and it was locked, and now we are hoping Doreen can provide us with a home address. Doreen’s hair is both very large and very permed, like it hasn’t been changed since the late eighties.
“She kind of looks like an alpaca,” Max says under his breath as Doreen chews her gum, and I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle.