2:10 PM Saturday, the trail

Good old Ella flies down the trail. My arms are loose, butt balanced above the seat, weight on the balls of my feet. I’ve never ridden so well, ever. No joke, I’m jumping my bike over fallen branches like they’re nothing. I could probably lift a car if you were trapped under it.

My panting fills the air. “Chris!” I yell, every hundred feet or so.

I call to you in my mind, hope you can hear me, wherever you are.

I’m coming, baby!

ESP is the one magical power that I can’t help thinking is real, that it’s possible to develop, if you try hard enough. I’ve been trying all day. You claim you can do it. And there was one moment at that bush party in April, when I thought, Whoa, maybe he’s right. But I didn’t say anything.

Remember when I went to the other side of the fire to get some spiked hot chocolate from Steph’s thermos? You stayed with Tim. After a few minutes, I felt something jerk at my mind, like someone was poking my shoulder (with a stick, ahem). I smiled at you across the flames and we walked toward each other and left without saying a single word. We never talked about it, but I thought it was cool and a little freaky, if you want to know the truth.

Maybe we can get that mind-reading thing happening again. ESP, like you call it. Maybe if you’re in great pain, you have more ESP power. Maybe if you focus real hard, and I focus hard, our thoughts will meet and you can tell me where you are.

It’s possible you’re not gleaming in the sun. Maybe you’re bleeding to death, but maybe it’s not too late and I can save you. I fly down the trail, hopping over fallen branches like they’re nothing.

No response.

I yell out, “Chris!”

Two more turns in the path. I brake hard by our spot.

I leap off my bike. “Chris?”

There’s a strange sound, a crack, like a branch breaking. I freeze. When I’m lifeguarding, I listen for sounds that are out of place, sounds of danger. Like a kickboard being slapped on the water, because it’s usually followed by a kickboard being slammed on a head.

Maybe that was you, pacing back and forth across the grass, your shoe breaking a stick on the ground. “Chris?”

It’s quiet. No more cracking wood.

Maybe it’s your killer. Maybe you’re a ghost and the message was you saying don’t go down to the river and here I am. Maybe the guy is about to jump from the bushes. The good thing is if a killer ever tried to attack me down here, I have a plan. I know that won’t surprise you.

I’d dive into the river, that’s what I’d do. If he followed me, I could fight him off better there. I’ve been trained to fight off a drowning person and I could fight off a killer, too. As long as I was in the water. I’d use my feet to kick him back. If he grabbed my arm, I’d twist into the thumb. As a last resort, I’d swim to the bottom. It goes against a person’s natural instincts to be pulled under, and he’d let go. If a murder is going to be attempted, I want to be close to water, that’s all I ask.

I scan the woods, look at each large tree for a person hiding behind it. The wind rattles the leaves. The river rushes past.

I’m clearly being an idiot. You are alive and well. Probably in Seattle. Or on your way to Brooklyn. Or to the Grand Canyon, without me. But why would you leave your truck? And why aren’t you answering your phone? The only thing that seems possible is that you ran into those guys. Or you’re somewhere, pouting.

A high-pitched sound by my feet makes me jump. A baby crow is standing about six feet away, cocking its head to the side. He hops toward me and does a little flutter in the air and lands back on the ground.

He blinks his intelligent black eyes. He’s a fledgling, still in that hopping phase. If you were here, you’d name him.

“Hey, Little Man,” I whisper.

He cocks his head to the side, which I take as a yes, he likes the name, and then he turns and does a little hop toward our spot. Is he trying to tell me something?

My heart picks up. I imagine your body in the clearing, a mangled mess, crows pecking at it. Did those guys follow you here?

It’s been a while since I’ve been here alone. I always thought it was stupid that girls have to be afraid in the woods, and I stubbornly came down here anyway, even when Steph stopped coming. But now I’m scared.

A gust of wind rustles the needles on Saber. Little Man jumps into the woods and disappears. More mysterious sounds. The moss looks creepy today, climbing up the cedar trees, an ancient plant from the days of dinosaurs.

The loud bark of a turkey vulture echoes through the trees. My heart beats faster. Turkey vultures eat dead animals. Right about now I wish I didn’t develop a weird fascination with identifying bird sounds when I was a kid.

I listen. More birds. Some sparrows. Crows. No cracking wood. No footsteps. It’s just my imagination.

I crouch down under Saber’s sharp branches and dive right into a spiderweb. I scream and bat at my head and think, Baby spiders, and enter the clearing, gyrating.

I stop. You aren’t here.

It’s so disappointing.

You’d say we have to be grateful for every little thing. Life is a gift, you’d say. Every night, when we talk on the phone, you ask me what I’m grateful for. You make me say three things and I moan and complain, but you know what? I like it. I’m admitting to you right now that I actually like it. When I hang up, the world does feel like a better place. Most of all, it’s a better place because you’re in it.

For the sake of karma, here’s my list at this moment: your body isn’t being eaten by carrion, and our spot looks real pretty. Okay, that’s just two things. My third: I don’t have lice. That’s random, but I am grateful for it.

I wish you were here.

If you were, I’d run up to you and kiss you all over your face and your nose and your dimple and your small ears. At least, that’s what I hope I’d do. In reality, I’d probably look around for a burger to throw. No idea why I did that. I never threw food at anyone before. I’m so sorry.

I do a lifeguard’s scan across the area, from the shadows under the trees to the light shining in the center of the clearing. I admit it, I’m looking for a paper airplane. I missed it when I didn’t get one yesterday. I was thinking maybe you’d left one here and you were going to send me on a wild-goose chase to find you. But there’s nothing. In this whole clearing, there are no man-made objects of any kind, no garbage, no paper—just flowers, moss, and leaves.

Why haven’t you called? Couldn’t you have left me a voicemail or something? You would have left me some kind of message if you were planning to disappear. Or you would have told someone. This isn’t your plan. It can’t be. Something’s happened.

A breeze blows through the green grass. I look for flattened spots, signs you’ve been here, but I see nothing. Above, the sun beats down.

That Bill Withers song plays in my brain. Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…Only I change “she’s” to “he’s”…It’s sort of funny that this song plays in my head at this moment, when there’s an abundance of sunshine.

The river is rushing past, even faster than it was on that day in the fall. We’ve had a warm spring, and more snow melted from the mountains than usual.

My phone vibrates. I look down.

It’s Josh: You still down there?

Me: Yep

Josh: See anything?

Me: No

Josh: Chris has a ball tournament today at 4

I totally forgot about your game! That’s it. I’m kind of excited. Maybe you’ll show up. Or maybe, I don’t know, maybe we’ll learn something.

Me: Want to go? Maybe he’ll be there??

Josh: I doubt it

Me: We can talk to the guys who beat him up

Josh: You know who it is?

Me: He pointed one guy out. From the Heights

Josh: Let’s go

His house is pretty close to the field, so I tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes. I ride by the Pitt. It looks like someone had a fire there last night. The burned wood is dry, not wet, and it rained yesterday, so it had to have been after the rain. There are some empty beer bottles. The sofa is nasty, as usual. The wood stumps look normal. There’s no blood.

Something mechanical makes a whir noise to the right of me, by the river. A boat? I push through the woods. A bunch of guys with weed cutters on the bank are spread about thirty feet from one another, clearing the riverbank.

I stop beside one of them and wave my hands.

He turns off the motor. Pulls off his mask. “Yup?” He has a deep voice and light brown hair, longer in the back, shorter on the sides.

“I’m looking for someone?” I say. “Um, my boyfriend? He’s six foot two, and he’s wearing a blue T-shirt and black shorts.”

“I haven’t seen anyone like that.”

“He’s African American.”

“Oh,” he says, then kind of looks behind him, like he thinks someone might be listening, but all the other guys still have their helmets and motors on.

“If you see any clothing or anything strange, like blood, when you’re cutting the weeds, can you tell the police?”

“No problem.” He drops his mask down and turns the weed cutter back on.

I ride away and wonder why I said blood. He kind of flinched when I said that. I guess I would have too.