My skin tingled as I slowly turned to the final set of tread marks. I brushed the dirt from my knees and scanned the yard. There were only these three sets of tire marks on the road. This was significant because the rain had started last night, leaving behind a fresh canvas, and now there were three where there should have been only two. Each set must have been left behind after the rain had died down. I swallowed.
The final set of tire marks veered sharply to the left, disappearing into a patch of grass. My heart pounded. I let my knee sink into the dirt. The third set of tire marks matched neither Mom’s station wagon nor my Bert. The grooves in the dirt were thick and chunky, like rows of molars had taken bites out of the road. The pattern reminded me of my dad’s old truck, the one my mom had sold, and a cold sliver of fear passed through me. Because there was only one explanation: Somebody must have been here.
I lingered over the strange trail even as the sun was baking the remnants into a hard mold. I tried to shake the crawling sensation out from under my scalp and, instead, headed straight for the house and into my mom’s bedroom.
It smelled like cigarette smoke and the pages of old magazines. The room stayed dim, even when the sun was pointed straight at the rest of the house. The carpet was squishy beneath my feet. I tugged at the closet doors, and they opened like accordion pleats to a shallow two-rack wardrobe. My mom’s clothes hung dull and lifeless near the center, an array of muted colors, sloppy cardigans, and ill-fitting pants. I pushed those to the side to clear a path to the far right-hand corner, where, hanging untouched, were my dad’s clothes. Once, when Mom didn’t know I’d come in, I caught her smelling the sleeves of one of his shirts, just sitting there with her nose pressed into the fabric. I yanked down on the collar of a button-down, and it slid from the hanger. My father liked plaid, and by the time I left, I was cradling three shirts in that pattern along with a couple pairs of jeans.
I carried my stash to the cellar, no intention at all of going to school. I pried open the hatch door and descended the stairs at last. “It’s me,” I called, my voice muffled by the pile of clothes. I stopped at the bottom and dropped the garments on a clear square of countertop. From where he was squatting behind the lab table, Owen pulled a tarp he’d draped over himself and stood.
“What took you so long?” He swatted the blue plastic down toward his feet.
I hesitated, weighing whether to tell him about the unexplained tire marks that I’d found in the front lawn, until I made a conscious decision that Owen, who was already more prone to worry and paranoia than I was, didn’t need to know unless and until there was actually something to know.
Right now, there wasn’t. So I pivoted and spotted the boy, standing directly behind the model skeleton against the far wall. This time I raised an eyebrow at Owen.
“What?” he said, kicking the now crumpled tarp beneath the table. “You told us to hide.”
The boy’s form was in full view between each of the bones. “You can come out now.…” The boy had no name with which to finish the sentence. He didn’t move. I came closer. “It’s all right. My mother’s gone.” The boy stayed very still but was peering at me over the model skull. “No one’s going to find you here,” I said. “It’s just Owen and me.” I stretched my hand out toward him.
Cautiously, he put his palm in mine and allowed me to lead him away from the worst hiding spot ever. “I don’t like it when you leave, Victoria.”
The corner of my mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll try not to from now on.”
His stillness seemed to suck the movement right out of his surroundings, like the air had turned stale along with him.
“First thing’s first,” I said. “Let’s get you dressed.” I reached over and tossed him a pair of jeans, boxers, and a shirt from my dad’s closet. He immediately began sliding off his boxers. “Wait!” My hand flew over my eyes and I spun around, pinching Owen to follow suit. “Okay, proceed.” I listened to the rustling of fabric and soft grunts for several moments. “Are you clothed?” I asked.
“Yes, Victoria.”
Owen and I turned. The clothes may have been a bit out of style, but at least if he was going to be a walking dead man, he wasn’t a naked one.
The boy looked to me expectantly, holding his arms out from his sides.
Owen checked his watch. “School’s started.”
I grimaced. Owen and I didn’t skip school. In fact, we were never even late. For the past two years we’d won awards for perfect attendance. It wasn’t so much that we thought we were learning anything as it was that people didn’t get into Harvard without a pristine transcript.
“Then we better figure out a plan for tomorrow, Captain Obvious.”
I crossed the room and pushed the metal gurney next to the boy. The black pad on top of the stretcher was cracked, revealing the yellowing foam inside. I patted the surface. “Can we ask you a few more questions?”