Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu

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.”
    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, wasn’t Dylan in here with you? Weren’t you watching him?
    Mindy, I think we need to call the police.
    â€œYou want another beer?” Emma asks me, eyeing me carefully.
    â€œNo,” I answer, pressing my hands over my face. Things are starting to feel loopy and twisty and not so good inside. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m going to pay later. I know it. “I need to stay here tonight,” I say. “Is that okay?”
    â€œYou know it is,” says Emma.
    â€œLet me just text my mom.”
    I manage to put together some sort of coherent message about spending the night at Emma’s, and I wait for my mom’s response to be that I should come back or I’ve been gone too much lately or she needs me home or whatever, but there’s no response for almost twenty minutes, and when she finally texts me back, all she writes is That’s fine .
    I consider texting her one more time to tell her Emma’s house is full of crystal meth users and they want to pimp me out to support their sick habit, but I’m too scared to get another That’s fine response in return, so I just put my phone on vibrate, stumble into Emma’s room, and pass out on her bed.

 
    ETHAN—161 DAYS AFTERWARD
    There are clumps of mud and a few cigarette butts on the closet’s hardwood floor.
    There’s 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 it’s trying to get my attention.
    I can’t stop worrying about what it will be like if the lightbulb goes out.
    There’s a navy blue winter coat with a broken zipper and a few flannel shirts lined up next to it, all hanging on wire hangers. I’m not tied up like when I first got here, but even though my arms and legs are free, there’s 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 didn’t smell like him. Like cigarettes and sweat and everything scary and dirty and sick.
    There’s a bucket like the one Gloria uses to mop our floors jammed into the corner, only I’m supposed to use it for the bathroom. It’s so close to me I can smell its stink.
    And there’s me.
    And I’m eleven.
    And the door to the closet won’t open.
    He put me in here after he hauled me out of the truck.
    I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been locked in.
    â€œEthan! Ethan, we’re right here!”
    Someone has me by the shoulders, and I can hear a lady’s voice, high-pitched and far away, screaming, “Don’t shake him so hard! Oh, Ethan, sweetheart, wake up! Please wake up!”
    Everything is swimmy and sideways. I can’t 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.
    â€œEthan!” Voices are shouting my name over and over again.
    I heave like I’m going to throw up, but nothing comes out.
    â€œEthan!”
    Finally, I blink and my eyes start to adjust. My room. Not the closet.
    That was before.
    But this is now. After.
    And I’m here. I’m here in my bedroom and I’m awake and I’m safe. I’m not back there.
    I’m 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