Page 30 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“So where do we go now? Search my apartment and whatever? I’m not sure where I could have stashed the kid, but I know you’ll need to check.”
“We will,” I say.
“You want me on house arrest or anything? Until he’s found?”
“No, but I’d like you to buddy up with someone. You’ll move in with Will temporarily.”
“So no one can accuse me of taking off at night to feed my hostage?”
“Just cutting off all avenues of concern.”
“Yeah, I know. And I’m probably not the person to offer, but I’d like to help. Whatever I can do. I have no idea what happened—I can’t imagine Max would go into the woods far enough to get lost—but I’d like to help.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
I head out with Dalton, to tell him about Gunnar. Then we continue searching. For hours, in the dark, we search.
When we return to town, Yolanda strides out. “You need to take a break.”
“We’re fine,” I say. “We just came back—”
“To get some sleep. Tell me those are your next words, because you two have been out in those woods all night. See that yellow thing in the sky? It’s the sun.”
“We’re—”
“No, you’re not fine.” She stops before us, arms crossed. “You’re setting a shitty example, and it stops now.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“You’ve been out all night. Do you think Will got any sleep? Kenny? Your sister? As long as you two are up and searching, they’re up and searching, because anyone who goes to bed while a child is lost is an unfeeling monster. So it’s up to you two to be the unfeeling monsters.”
I glare at her. She has a point. I just don’t like how she’s making it, as usual. And, as usual, I also have to admit this is a language I listen to. Guilt. Say I need a rest for myself, and I’ll keep going. Say that others need a rest and I have to lead by example, and if I ignore her, I am indeed an unfeeling monster.
“Tell Will you’re taking a few hours off,” she says. “Suggest others do the same. If he wants to stay up while you sleep, that’s fine, as long as he takes the next rest shift. We’re all zombies, and do you know what zombies can’t do? Think.”
“Depends on the depiction,” Dalton says.
She glares at him. “Don’t pull that. You know what I mean. You are the mindless walking dead right now. Everyone is. We aren’t thinking—we’re just relentlessly seeking our target, which in this case is a boy instead of brains.”
“Has anyone found anything?”
“Do you think I’d be telling you to get some rest if we had a lead?” She shakes her head. “You’re exhausted, Casey, and you’re not thinking straight. Go rest. I’ll tell the others.”
* * *
I don’t expect to fall asleep, but my body has other ideas. I climb into bed and curl up against Dalton, and I don’t remember another thing until someone’s pounding on our door. Then I flail awake to find Dalton already out of bed and striding for the door, sweatpants in hand, with Storm at his heels.
As I dress, Dalton opens the door. A voice sounds, alternating between a high pitch and a lower one.
Carson. I haven’t heard him talk enough to realize his voice is breaking, but now the words are tumbling out and it’s cracking all over the place.
It’s Carson.
Max’s brother.
In a panic, his words a jumbled mess.
