guy got him. What he said to him while he had him, you know? If I knew, maybe ⦠maybe I could figure out how to help him be less scared now.â
Suddenly, other images run in front of my eyes. Other sounds. From that Saturday afternoon when Dylan went missing.
Dill Pickle, give me a second, okay? Can you let me finish something? Go play somewhere else, okay?
Caroline, wasnât Dylan in here with you? Werenât you watching him?
Mindy, I think we need to call the police.
âYou want another beer?â Emma asks me, eyeing me carefully.
âNo,â I answer, pressing my hands over my face. Things are starting to feel loopy and twisty and not so good inside. Iâve had too much to drink, and Iâm going to pay later. I know it. âI need to stay here tonight,â I say. âIs that okay?â
âYou know it is,â says Emma.
âLet me just text my mom.â
I manage to put together some sort of coherent message about spending the night at Emmaâs, and I wait for my momâs response to be that I should come back or Iâve been gone too much lately or she needs me home or whatever, but thereâs no response for almost twenty minutes, and when she finally texts me back, all she writes is Thatâs fine .
I consider texting her one more time to tell her Emmaâs house is full of crystal meth users and they want to pimp me out to support their sick habit, but Iâm too scared to get another Thatâs fine response in return, so I just put my phone on vibrate, stumble into Emmaâs room, and pass out on her bed.
Â
ETHANâ161 DAYS AFTERWARD
There are clumps of mud and a few cigarette butts on the closetâs hardwood floor.
Thereâs one lightbulb on above me, and when I adjust my body to try and find a more comfortable position to sit in, the cord to turn the light on and off slides over the top of my head like itâs trying to get my attention.
I canât stop worrying about what it will be like if the lightbulb goes out.
Thereâs a navy blue winter coat with a broken zipper and a few flannel shirts lined up next to it, all hanging on wire hangers. Iâm not tied up like when I first got here, but even though my arms and legs are free, thereâs no room for me to lay down and spread out. When I get tired I pull one of the shirts down and fold it up into a pillow and curl into a ball, crying into the shirt and wishing it didnât smell like him. Like cigarettes and sweat and everything scary and dirty and sick.
Thereâs a bucket like the one Gloria uses to mop our floors jammed into the corner, only Iâm supposed to use it for the bathroom. Itâs so close to me I can smell its stink.
And thereâs me.
And Iâm eleven.
And the door to the closet wonât open.
He put me in here after he hauled me out of the truck.
Iâve lost track of how long Iâve been locked in.
âEthan! Ethan, weâre right here!â
Someone has me by the shoulders, and I can hear a ladyâs voice, high-pitched and far away, screaming, âDonât shake him so hard! Oh, Ethan, sweetheart, wake up! Please wake up!â
Everything is swimmy and sideways. I canât breathe. I throw my hands up, my arms up. I swing them around, trying to reach out until I find something solid. Something real.
My shirt is clinging to me, covered in sweat.
âEthan!â Voices are shouting my name over and over again.
I heave like Iâm going to throw up, but nothing comes out.
âEthan!â
Finally, I blink and my eyes start to adjust. My room. Not the closet.
That was before.
But this is now. After.
And Iâm here. Iâm here in my bedroom and Iâm awake and Iâm safe. Iâm not back there.
Iâm panting, but my breath is starting to slow down. I make out my dad in front of me, dressed in a white T-shirt and underwear.
What time is it?
How long have I been freaking