Lost Cargo by Hollister Ann Grant, Gene Thomson

that boulder, and we left our socks, so we should’ve passed them. We’ve been out here all day.”
    “Maybe the deer got the socks.”
    “I can’t believe this.” She stared at the woods. “The camouflage was breaking down. We ought to be able to find him again. We should have seen something by now.”
    He brushed some leaves from her hair. “I wish I had some answers for you.”
    “He’s here somewhere, and he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink, and what if he’s sick? It was in the thirties last night. Promise me you’ll come back tomorrow.”
    “Absolutely, of course I will,” he told her, ready to say anything to get her to turn around.
    She gave a bitter nod. They set back. The air grew chill after the sun vanished behind a heavy cloudbank. Travis took off his muffler and wrapped it around her shoulders. After an hour, a quiet sound grew behind them. Footfalls on the forest floor. Something scrabbled over the hillside. Silence. Seconds later, it moved again, the unmistakable sounds of claws on rock. Whatever it was snuffled in the leaves and fell still again.
    The creek gurgled. A hawk screamed in the forest.
    I knew it. We were fools to come out here
. He pulled Lexie behind a small boulder and steadied the gun, wondering if the leaves and the damp earth would be the last things he ever smelled.
    The thing rushed up the hill. Scratched in the bramble. Stopped. Moved again. More claws on rock. He prepared to shoot, his blood roaring in his ears. Then a wolfish German shepherd bounded into sight, running off leash, followed by its master, a dour man in a dark blue parka. The man stared at them, clipped the leash on the dog, and passed by on the trail.
    Travis put his arms around Lexie. “I almost blew that dog away. I almost did it.”
    Finally the buildings on Connecticut Avenue appeared. Streetlights were coming on as the grim sky fast faded into night.
    She looked back at the woods. “So we didn’t find him. He’s out there another night.”
    “We’ll keep going back until we find him,” he said.
    They flagged a cab that rattled through the darkness to her house. When they pulled up to the curb, Lexie leaned across the seat, put his muffler back around his shoulders, and kissed him on the cheek. “I know we just met, Travis, but I feel like you’re my best friend in the whole world. I feel like we’ve known each other forever.”
    Stunned, he took her hands.
    “I’m afraid to be alone,” she said. “Could you stay here tonight?”
    He stayed on the hard blue couch in the alcove off her bedroom, the loaded gun on the floor, and watched her sleeping figure. She lay on her side, dressed in jeans and a sweater, ready to leap up if anything happened. One of autumn’s last crickets sang its slow nocturnal song below the window.
    Maybe she likes me
, he thought with wild hope.
    He reminded himself that she’d said
best friend
and turned the familiar words over and over to see if he could find any magical crumbs of meaning in them. Good words in one way, painful words in another. Words that could change, his heart insisted. Words that seemed to have a road through them, leading places. There would be more early mornings together over coffee, long mornings that stretched into night. Words that one day might hold an ocean of meaning.
    Her boyfriend seemed to be staring at him from the photos around the room. To hell with that guy. Exhaustion washed over him, but he couldn’t sleep. He was too big for the couch. The arm dug into his neck no matter how he shifted his weight. It was a hideous piece of furniture.
    The initials on the camera bag appeared in his mind. Who was JF?
    He gave up on sleep, clicked on a small book light he found on the desk, took the alien device out of his coat, and wondered if he should show it to her in the morning. The smooth silver device gleamed in his hand. It weighed as much as a rock.
    Why did it have a hook, but no opening? Who made it and for what reason? What