4:10 PM Saturday, Thomson’s Field

Josh and I head to Thomson’s Field on our bikes, his dog running along beside. Josh would have driven, but he said Sam needed a run. I guess the dog needs to go out even when your best friend is missing.

The parking lot is so packed we have to get off our bikes. The hamburgers are driving Sam crazy, and his massive brown mutt body keeps tugging Josh from one side to the other. I can tell Josh is getting annoyed.

Around us, people are laughing and carrying coolers and blasting country music and wearing skimpy tops, even bikinis, not a pool in sight. It’s like school is done and it’s already summer. Normally, I’d be joining right in, wearing my own half top and jean shorts. But with you missing, I feel like the whole world should be on pause, people should cover up and there should be no music. Yep, you’d hate that. I can hear you saying, “No music?” You wouldn’t say no boobs, but you’d think it, and you’d shake your head, like, no way.

A couple passes us, pushing their bikes. The girl gives me a big smile. “Nice day for a ride.” She looks at Josh and I realize, Oh my god, she thinks we’re a couple. Josh and I glance at each other. Awkward. I’m hoping no one else gets the wrong idea.

At the hill in the center of the ball fields, I scan the crowds. “Maybe Chris will show up,” I say. “Maybe he hit his head and doesn’t know who he is, but he’ll be drawn here.”

“That would be great.”

It’s the winning-the-lottery version of a missing person. The person simply banged their head and they don’t know who they are and it’s just a matter of time before someone spots them wandering the streets asking people where they are and who they are.

“You hear about the protest in Seattle last night?” Josh says.

“Yeah, Steph said something.”

“They were protesting that police shooting last month,” he says. “Some of the streets were shut down. We almost got blocked in. It was hard to get out of town.”

“You think he went to the protest?”

“He would’ve called,” Josh says.

“He could have been arrested.”

“Maybe the cops aren’t letting him call.” Josh’s blue eyes brighten up, like this is a good thing.

I think about the protest we went to in Portland. On the drive there, I sat beside you in the truck and watched the muscle in your jaw as you pried open the pistachio shells without using your fingers, which is harder than it looks, and spit them in the empty Coke bottle, all the while talking passionately about peaceful protest. I never heard you talk so much, honestly, not at one time. About Gandhi. MLK. Malcolm X. James Baldwin. About the organizer you met in Portland, the guy who invited you to come and bring friends. Josh and I just listened. When you talked about the soul fight, you were so fired up, it was inspiring. You said that Gandhi believed peaceful protest helped the soul, that we all have our own soul fight toward inner peacefulness. I never thought of things like that before. I mean, this is Pendling. Nobody talks like that. It was cool, though.

At the protest that night, I saw the way you stood up taller, clapped that organizer guy on the back, and it made me sad. I don’t know why. Maybe it was a window into your future life, away from Pendling, away from me.

I don’t blame you for wanting to leave. This town was built on racism, for god’s sake. African Americans moved here in the fifties to work in the mill, but they weren’t even allowed to live in the goddamn town. Lots of people around here don’t even know about that; they think segregation didn’t happen in the Northwest, just like they think they aren’t biased because they have one black friend.

Remember that old lady volunteer at the half marathon? When you ran through the finish line, your arms reached out toward me, like I was your prize, and I grabbed your face and gave you a big wet one. I’d normally go for the hug, but I didn’t want to get your armpit sweat on me. Your sticky running mouth was kind of gross, but it was better than armpit. (I can just hear you laughing, saying, “Better than armpit, huh?”)

That woman gave me an evil look, like I was the worst person in the world for kissing my boyfriend. Then, she turned to you, all fake, “Congratulations,” she said. You thanked her, gave her your wide smile, dimple and all. Then she added, “Do you have Kenyan blood, sweetie?” As if you were a mixed-breed dog with greyhound in it. I wanted to shove her sweetie up her butt.

Josh and I were so shocked that we looked at each other like WTF. You answered her, though. You were all like, “No, I don’t think so,” as if that was a legit question. You’re too easygoing about shit like that, or maybe you act like you are. When we were going to that protest, you were open about it for once. You said people say things like that all the time. They don’t even realize it. That made me wonder if I did too. God I hope not.

Josh nearly trips over his bike due to Sam leaping toward the hamburgers cooking by the barbecue truck. “Walk,” he says, sharply, pulling back on the leash. “All I know is he’s not on the trails, not on this side of the river anyway. I looked for at least five hours, twenty miles in both directions.”

Just think of that. He rode the trails for five hours looking for you. He’s such a good friend.

“He never goes that far,” I say.

“Yeah, and it got real smoky to the north, near the fire,” he says.

“He would’ve turned around.” It’s just a guessing game right now. Neither of us have any idea.

“His team is over there.” Josh points at the far field. They’ve got white-and-black jerseys, like yours. “I’m trying to find the Heights team, though. I think they’re green and white.”

I scan for green uniforms, and then, I look up the hill and see something that I immediately wish I could unsee. I let out one of my horror-movie gasps. Josh jerks to the side and drops Sam’s leash.

I guess he thinks I spotted you. But that’s not what I’m looking at.

It’s this guy in his mid-twenties, scraggly beard, sitting next to his girlfriend, drinking a beer, wearing jean cutoffs, his legs sprawled open, his friggin junk hanging out. It’s hairy and wrinkly and fat.

Josh sees it, says, “Oh no, that’s just wrong.” He bends down for the leash, but Sam’s too fast—he takes off, up the hill, toward the guy.

Then Sam shoves his goddamn nose right in the guy’s crotch. I’m not kidding. The guy starts laughing, but Sam’s not done. He’s rubbing around like he wants to clean the dude.

Josh screams out Sam’s name. The guy’s girlfriend calls Sam a perv dog. Josh’s eyes are wild with panic. The guy is petting Sam, who’s practically climbing on top of him, licking his face.

Josh runs up the hill, grabs the leash, says sorry, and drags Sam away. He stumbles back down the hill to me, his eyes wide, in shock. I can’t stop laughing; it’s so damn funny. Then Josh snorts and he’s laughing too.

We stagger around to the other side of the hill so we can’t see wrinkly-balls man, and we fall down on the grass, clutching our sides, rolling with laughter.

Sam starts licking Josh’s face, he’s so happy, and Josh lets out this little scream because he remembers where that tongue has been. You could say we’re sort of hysterical. Maybe it’s just the stress of you being missing. It’s not even funny. I want to stop, but I can’t. I can’t breathe.

“Josh? Jessie?” A screechy girl’s voice. “What are you doing?” Tamara is standing above us, hands planted on her hips. Her face is contorting into this evil witch monster mask and her head is spinning around. Just kidding. She’s glaring at us though, acting like we’re having sex in the middle of the ball field.

Becky and Tim walk slowly up behind her. We are instantly sober.

Josh climbs to his feet. “We saw this guy…”

We try to explain why we’re laughing, but it never works when you try to tell someone what’s so funny and it especially doesn’t work when your best friend/boyfriend is missing and you look like you’re having a grand old time.

“What are you guys doing here?” Josh asks Tim, changing the subject.

Tim lifts his baseball hat and scratches his head, scanning the field. “I thought I’d come out, see if anyone’s heard from Chris.”

“We’re looking for a guy,” I say. “Someone who might have information.”

“Yeah?” Tim gives me a funny look. I know I’m being kind of vague. “Who?”

“This guy from the Heights?” I glance at Josh. You’ve been gone too long to keep this to ourselves.

“He and some of his rich buddies from the Heights beat the crap out of Chris three weeks ago,” Josh says. “Remember the black eye?”

“What?” Tim’s jaw tightens. “Why didn’t he tell us?”

“He didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” Josh says.

“He said people would want to get revenge,” I add. “You know him.”

Everyone knows about you and your anti-violence, love-preaching, gratitude-giving ways. Tim’s eyes flutter shut. He stays like that for a moment. “Where?”

“By the Pitt. Same place he was running last night,” Josh says.

“You know what they look like?”

“He pointed one of them out to me last weekend at the bakery,” I say. “The guy was eating a cream puff. I wanted to shove the damn thing in his face. But Chris wouldn’t let me. He wouldn’t even go in. We had to go back later.”

“I guess this guy’s been giving him a hard time for a while,” Josh adds.

“He was on the travel team with him,” I say.

Tim’s shaking his head, furious, like he wants to get revenge for you right now. “I probably know him,” he grunts.

“I just want to find out what his name is,” I say, “so I can tell the cops.”

“We’ll come with you,” he says. Tamara gives Becky a look, but they come along too, walking slowly behind us, whispering about something.

We find the Heights team a few fields over. They all have their parents watching, of course. Nobody has to work on a Saturday in this crowd.

I scan the field for a blond guy. The Heights team has a ton of blond guys, which is weird, since statistically only 2 percent of the world has blond hair. I can hear you saying, “How do you remember shit like that?” I don’t know. Numbers stick in my brain.

I point. “There.” He’s got the lightest hair out there, pale blue eyes. I’d remember those eyes anywhere, how he stared at me through the bakery window, all cocky, assuming I was checking him out.

“I know that guy,” Tim says. “His dad owns the Honda dealership.”

Tamara stiffens, like she’s nervous.

“Dave Johnson,” Tim adds. “Good pitcher, but he’s an asshole.”

“Oh man, I bought my car there,” Josh says.

“That’s his dad on that billboard by the highway?” I say. “It’s the cheesiest billboard. It looks like a teeth-whitening advertisement. Buy low. Go fast. Come to Johnson’s Used Cars.”

“That’s him,” Tim says, nodding.

Tamara is oddly silent.

Johnson walks toward us. We’re by the dugout and he’s coming off the field, talking to a teammate. Tamara bites the side of her pinkie. Becky gives her a nervous look.

“Johnson,” Josh growls out. It surprises me because it’s not like him.

Tim grips the metal fence. His other hand tightens into a fist. Which is bad news for Johnson. One of Tim’s fists in your face would probably feel like being hit by a truck.

Johnson gazes at us, cold. Maybe he’s tied you up in his parents’ cabin, and he’s cutting off one of your fingers at a time. I mean, maybe he’s a real sick fuck. I don’t know why I have this thought, but I do. All day long, it’s just one friggin horror story of a thought after another.

“We’ve got to talk to you,” Tim calls.

Johnson takes a few steps toward us and then stops twenty feet away, like he’s scared the guys are going to charge him, even though there’s a tall metal fence separating us from him. “What?”

“You see Chris Kirk last night?” Josh says.

His jaw tenses. “No.” And then, he spots Tamara. “Hey, Tam, what are you doing with these guys?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I swear, she looks afraid.

“We heard you and some friends jumped him a few weeks back,” Tim says. “Did you?”

The edges of Johnson’s mouth twitch up like he thinks it’s funny. “Who wants to know?” His voice is overly deep, like he’s forcing it.

Tim grips the wire fence surrounding the ball field. “I do.”

“He was a pussy,” Johnson says, and then he walks away.

Was? Why did he say was? I look at Josh.

Josh never gets mad, but his eyes are as hard as river rocks and his hand’s gripping on Sam’s leash, making a fist so tight it looks like he can’t wait to punch someone. Has he ever been in a fight in his life?

Sam, on the other hand, is pressing his wet nose against the fence, wagging his tail, for god’s sake. He’s not the kind of dog you can say “Sic ’em” to, but I wish we could. He’ll just lick you to death. Which, I guess, today, would be pretty nasty.

“Hey,” Tim says to Johnson, who looks back. “You want to go?”

“Anytime.” Johnson keeps walking toward the dugout. Doesn’t look back. I bet he’s scared. And now, he knows we’re onto him.

“Come on,” Tamara says to Tim. “You can get him later.”

“How does he know you?” he asks.

“We used to go out. It was a mistake.” Her eyes go all watery, and she looks away.

Something happened. I think we all figure that out. Becky looks real sad for her, and I don’t want to say it serves her right, but you got to be stupid to date a creep like that.

“Let’s go,” Tamara says, tugging on Tim’s arm, like she can’t wait to get out of here. She looks like she’s about to burst into tears. It’s real shitty of me, but I want her to cry. I want her to feel bad.

It’s because of that time she said I wasn’t good enough for you. It hurt, you know? Like, I must have thought back to it a hundred times. My brain put her words in a hamster wheel and spun them around and around.

She’s probably right—I’m probably not good enough for you. But you asked her out first and she said no, so too bad for her. (Yes, I hear stuff, don’t think I don’t.)

Tim waves good-bye. “Text if you hear anything,” he calls.

I think of how you said he has mad techy skills. “Hey, Tim,” I call out. He looks back. “You think you could search for Chris’s phone? I know his password and his login. Is there a way, you can, like, track it?”

“Maybe. I’ll see if I can get in—he has AT&T, right?”

I nod.

“Or if he has the Find My iPhone app. But I’m sure the cops are doing that.”

“I don’t think the cops are doing anything,” I say.

He sighs like the weight of the world is on him. “You’re probably right. Text me his info.”

“Okay.”

He waves again, and they head off.

I stand there and glare at Johnson. He flits his eyes our way.

You always say I’ve got good intuition about things, and right now, I’m thinking his cold blue eyes look like the eyes of a killer. Or, who knows, he could be just a regular asshole who likes the fact that he beat you up. It’s hard to figure out if someone is a regular asshole or if their asshole-ness is so extreme, they’re capable of murder. It’s probably something cops need to figure out all the time, which is why they’re so suspicious of everyone.

But there’s something off about Johnson. And I’m going to find out what it is.