“I’ll try,” I told her, passing Socks’ leash into her hands, then kneeling in the dirt. “But I can’t promise anything.”
She nodded, clutching the leash so hard her knuckles turned white. She knelt next to me, hauling the squirming puppy up against her side.
I looked for a long moment at the shiny material in the bush. I took a huge breath, the kind I’d take before I dove deep underwater. And then, before I lost my nerve, I reached out and ran my fingertips down the length of the flight activator panel.
A wave of purple washed me away.
The boy realizes the depth of his mistake when his flashlight flickers out. He smacks his hand against the bottom, but the batteries are dead. He sticks the useless thing into his candy bucket and keeps walking.
He has already walked for so long. So very long.
Too long.
He is tired. So very tired. His legs ache with each step. But he can’t stop now. He has to make it to the clearing, where the older kids are gathered.
He’s been there twice before, but never at night. And always with his brother to guide the way.
Were there railroad tracks, last time?
He thinks there were.
He cannot really remember.
The woods are different in the dark. The branches pull and tear. The wind bites with sharp teeth. He shivers in his thin costume. His shredded palms sting from the crash off his bike.
He wants to go home.
Not the hotel.
He hates the hotel.
He hates his brother, too.
It is the worst Halloween he’s ever had — even before the fall. He tumbles over the unseen tree root, face-first. His arms pinwheel. His candy bucket sails into the air, then clatters to the ground somewhere out of sight. The ground rushes up to meet him, slick with wet leaves. He tries to stand, but slips again — this time down a sharp incline. He feels his costume shredding as he slides past bushes and branches; feels his flight panels tearing loose…
We retraced Rory’s steps in total silence, moving through the woods like two ghosts. It didn’t take us very long to find the incline where he’d slipped. We spotted the upturned candy bucket first, its orange hue dulled by dirt and leaves. Dozens of shiny wrappers were scattered on the ground around it. The mud was disturbed, deep rivets made by scrambling limbs.
This was where he’d tumbled.
We did not pause to even look too closely. We were caught in a current of urgency, driven to keep moving by some invisible gravitational force that called us forward.
Down the slope.
Into the marsh.
It took a long time to pick a safe path to the bottom. It was steep enough to see why Rory had fallen. One wrong step on a slippery patch of leaves would spell disaster.
I carried Socks in my arms as we made our careful descent, muscles straining under his weight. God, he was heavy. In another few months, he’d weigh more than I did. At the bottom, we scanned the area for more signs of Rory. There was nothing, at first. Georgia called out for him, screaming his name over and over again until her voice went hoarse.
There was no response.
If someone was around to hear us, they were not making themselves known.
She grew more and more frantic as we searched the area, her breaths coming faster as the minutes dragged on without success.
“He was here,” she muttered, shoving at a thorny bush until her skin tore. “There must be something…”
It was Socks who found it, in the end. His sharp nose led him to a patch of sodden leaves, where he snuffled around until he unearthed the source. My airway closed up when I saw an unnatural shape amidst the brambles. A boy’s sneaker, the treads full of mud, the laces hanging loose.