Page 69 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
There’s a table and a chair. No sign of anyone on the chair. My gaze moves to blankets on the floor. Empty and discarded blankets.
I rise and whisper in Dalton’s ear. “I can’t spot anyone inside, but I can’t see the whole interior either. You try.”
He does and comes back up saying the same. It’s quiet and still inside, and if someone’s in that small space, they’re out of our line of sight.
We back off then, and I tell Dalton that it looks as if the door might be missing. He agrees. That means no sneaking up around the front and yanking open the door to surprise any inhabitants. There’s also the possibility of more missing boards that could act as unexpected windows and give us away as we pass.
I motion up.
“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going on the roof,” he says.
“They won’t expect it.”
“Yeah, especially when you crash through the rotted boards and land at their feet.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He grumbles, but I can tell he’s going to agree. Then his gaze drops to my midriff.
“No,” I say. “It’s a collection of cells well protected by muscle and fat. I’m nowhere near the stage of needing to worry about that.”
When he finally relents, I could celebrate my victory as a sign of victories to come, but I get the feeling he’s only decided to hold out for bigger fights.
We return to the shack, and he boosts me up. The building is low, with a roof barely seven feet off the ground. I easily find a safe spot and crawl up. As soon as I’m there, I can see down into half of the shack. Unfortunately, it’s not the half anyone has been inhabiting, given that open roof. The blankets and furniture have been shoved into the section beneath me.
I take it slow. When a board creaks, I go still. Everything stays quiet. I switch direction to avoid that board and I continue until I’m near a smaller hole in the roof. Through it I can see the table. It’s empty. Another few inches and—
The boards groan. I freeze. Then I listen. Nothing.
I reposition myself and peer down. I can see the blankets and part of the floor. No one is there. I mentally map the small space. Unless someone’s plastered against the wall, it’s empty. But that still means I have to make sure no one is plastered against the wall.
I creep to my left and look. There, I can see the one section of wall that had been hidden.
I retreat to the edge and let Dalton help me down.
“Empty,” I tell him.
We still don’t run around the front and through the door. We take it slow, and then Dalton swings around while I cover him. Within seconds, we’re inside an empty shack.
I whistle for Storm. I don’t want her out there any longer than necessary, but I also need her nose. She comes at a lope and lumbers in, and I can almost see her slump when she doesn’t spot Max. She goes straight to the pile of blankets and noses them.
“He was here,” I say.
Dalton looks around. “Decent spot. Well hidden. Partially sheltered.”
“So why leave? That’s what you’re thinking.”
“I am.”
I look around from where I stand. There’s not much to see. There are those blankets, old and moth-eaten. A handmade table and chair that I suspect were already here. Trash is piled in one corner, but when I dig through it, there’s nothing less than a decade old.
“They cleared out,” I say. “But why?” I stand and look around. “We’d have heard them leaving, and everything’s gone—not so much as a wrapper or sock left behind when they fled with Max. Gone for a while, then. A planned departure.”
I pace around the tiny building. “Temporary lodgings on the way to somewhere else? Or while waiting for a plane?”
Dalton doesn’t answer, which means he has nothing to add. My reasoning is sound.
“Let’s hope there’s a trail for Max,” I say. “Considering we know he was definitely here, that should be helpful. Storm? Come—”
