I ate too much pizza.
Yeah, that meal wasn’t my mom’s finest effort. She did the best she could with what she had, but honestly, no. It was crap. The pizza, on the other hand, was amazing. I scarfed six of the eight slices along with a side of garlic knots and brownie bites.
And then I fell asleep on the couch as Mom and I watched a movie on Netflix.
I awake alone, though, and the television is off. Mom must have crawled up to her room, leaving me to sleep down here.
I stumble to the kitchen to start the coffee, start my day, when I remember I locked the door. If Priya needed to use the bathroom or the phone or just to come inside, she wouldn’t have been able to.
Stupid, Matty. Stupid.
The sun is creeping up over the horizon as I head out to the field barefoot. It feels good to touch the earth with my toes, to sink my heels into the dewy grass. The slender blades spring back into place with each step I take.
I blink a few times when I get to the field.
I don’t see Priya.
Turning in a circle, I search the field and the surrounding woods for her. Is she curled up with Ginger somewhere? But I don’t see the dog either.
Telescope.
Tent.
No girl. No dog.
I peel the tent flap back. “Priya? Are you—”
Ginger is lying in the middle of the tent, her tail wrapped around her, her paws crossed with her chin resting atop them. I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of déjà vu.
The garage. Empty. And now this.
My stomach sinks to my feet. “She’s gone,” I tell Ginger, who obviously knows. She drags herself to me and rests her head under my hand, nudging it for a pet, as if rubbing my palm over her silky ears will make everything better.
It does, but not for very long.
I can’t believe it. One night—one goddamn night—that I’m not out here with her, and she leaves. I shake my head when I feel tears cloud my eyes.
I knew she had to go at some point. I knew she couldn’t live in this field forever.
“But . . .”
The telescope is still aimed at the sky, at that distant spot in the Universe that called to Priya. During the day, I won’t be able to see anything, but I look through it anyway, careful to avoid pointing it directly at the sun.
She’s just a girl. She’s not an alien.
My heart plummets. I know. I knew. I did. But . . .
I want to believe. I need to believe.
In something. In someone.
I bend down to Ginger and let her lick my face and nuzzle her cold nose under my chin. “Where did she go, girl? Did she tell you?”
My dog’s brown eyes look worried, or maybe I’m just projecting.
And maybe she’s not really gone. Maybe she’s out for a walk or she slept under the trees. Maybe the sneaky girl is actually in my house somewhere, having discovered a way into the basement or attic, and maybe if I wait, she’ll come back.
But as the minutes pass and she doesn’t walk out of the woods after a quick pee and she doesn’t amble up the hill from the workshop, the realization that she is really and truly gone finally sinks in, settling into my bones like a frigid wind.
Where the hell is she?
Did she walk away? Drive away? Call a taxi or an Uber? Did her boyfriend or family find her? My head swirls with the possibilities.
I pace the field as if it would tell me something, give me a clue. My bare feet stumble over dry branches and rocks and leaves.
She’s gone. She’s really gone.
But where? I start to head down to the house, and in my mind, I’ve hopped on my bike and begun to cruise the streets of my crappy town to see if she’s wandering around. Maybe she went to the DQ to talk to a tree? To the lake for a swim? To the Aokis’ to visit Felicette?
I call to Ginger but she doesn’t budge. I clap my hands.
“Come on, girl!”
Normally I wouldn’t care. Normally I don’t give a shit if the dog wants to stay up here and bake in the sun. But this week has been anything but normal and I do care. I take a few menacing steps closer to Ginger, growling at her, and still she holds her ground.
Next to the telescope.
Which has a white paper tied around a tripod leg.
What on earth?
It’s not paper, though, it’s nylon, and as soon as I bend down to peer closer at it, I recognize what it is instantly because I’ve seen a million of them: a hospital ID bracelet. My heart thumps as I carefully unwrap it from the tripod. It’s definitely a bracelet, but the part where it was tied around the stand is shredded and the words are indistinct.
Shah, Priya
Johnson, Simone MD
DOB 2/12/00
There’s one line—the most important one, damn it—that isn’t clear. Where it should say the name of the hospital, all I can read is PHILA.
Priya has a last name. And a date of birth. And a doctor.
And a hospital that’s probably in Philadelphia.
I hear Em’s voice in my head: Maybe she’s sick.
Too skinny. Too clumsy. Too . . . scarred.
She’s not crazy. She’s not a mental patient. She’s not . . . an alien.
Em’s voice again: Maybe you should talk to your mom.
I didn’t! Why didn’t I? Oh god.
I clutch the bracelet in my fist and run all the way to the house, jumping over the stream and nearly tripping in the grass. If anyone knows about hospitals, it’s my mother, the nurse.
“Mom! Mom! Are you up?” I charge up the stairs. Bedroom’s empty, bathroom’s empty.
And back down. Not in the kitchen or the laundry room.
“Mom!”
Her purse and keys and cell are missing from their usual spots.
So is her car.
“Are you serious?” My voice echoes in the garage. Ginger sits at my feet, ever patient.
I’m always—always—a step behind. I never seem to think ahead, to anticipate the possibilities of things to come. I never saw Emily’s rejection, or my dad taking off, or Priya’s sickness. That’s what it is, right? God, how dumb can one person be?
Will it always be this way? Will I always be left in the dust of the empty garage, the vacant field? Will I always be blindsided and crushed?
“I can’t let her go,” I tell Ginger. “I can’t. I have to find her.”
I open my hand and unfurl the bracelet: Shah, Priya.
“Let’s start with that.”