Page 31 of The Magic We Made

All we’ve found so far, however, is roly-polies, mosquitoes, and ticks. And now mud.

“Meg?” Haley shouts. Whenever things get tough, Haley calls for Meg, probably because Meg never pretends not to hear her, like I sometimes do. “Meg, will you show them that they aren’t made of sugar and won’t melt in the rain?”

But for the first time, when Haley calls Meg’s name, Meg doesn’t respond.

“I don’t think Meg’s here,” Trina says after we all listen for Meg’s voice for a few seconds and hear nothing but rain.

“Very funny.” Her bloating must be bad today if Haley thinks any of us are in the mood for joking. “Where is she?”

Suddenly I realize why I’ve been walking around all day with a kind of knot in my gut. I assumed it was the coming rainstorm—as an empath, I’m highly attuned to shifts in the weather and can always tell when it’s about to rain. Though truthfully, that’s because my camp counselor showed me when I was ten how the leaves on certain trees flip over when the barometric pressure is changing, and that can be an indicator of an incoming storm.

No, the knot in my gut has been there since last night. Which is also the last time I saw Meg.

Wait... is that true? It must be, because Sidney says, “I haven’t seen her since last night,” and Bella agrees. “Yeah. I saw Meg by the friendship circle around the fire. But I haven’t seen her since.”

I realize I haven’t seen Meg since last night’s ceremony, either.

“Um.” It’s Trina again. “I saw her this morning, over by the beach.”

“The beach?” Haley sounds upset. “What was she doing by the beach? I didn’t give anyone permission to go to the beach.”

“She said she was going fishing,” Trina says. “That’s why she took the boat.”

Haley seems as confused as I am. “But I didn’t give her permission to use the boat.”

Trina looks concerned. “Oh. I think she wanted it to be a surprise.”

“She knows better!” I can hear the anger in Haley’s voice. “And if she really went fishing, why isn’t she back yet? Did that goddamned bitch steal our boat?”

And that’s when I realize I know exactly where Meg is. Or where she’s trying to get, anyway: away.

Away from this island. Away from us.

And away from Haley, too.

Frankie

I wake up disoriented.

This isn’t the first time in recent months that I’ve fallen asleep in the massive California king Richard and I used to share, then opened my eyes in the morning to find myself surrounded by popcorn that’s spilled from the bowl I took to bed with me to consume while watching episodes ofHouse Hunters International.

But thisisthe first time I’ve woken amidst spilled popcorn to find someone sleeping with me.

Something warm and heavy is lying across my right arm, and for a few bewildering seconds, I think the weight belongs to Ash. This makes no sense whatsoever, nor does the fact that in my hypnopompic state between sleeping and waking, the idea that Ash might have made his way into my house and crawled into bed with me doesn’t upset me like it would if I were fully conscious. In fact, I kind of like it. He feels good there beside me, warm and heavy and reassuring...

Alarmed, I open my eyes and am jolted into full wakefulness when I see not Ash’s face across the pillow a few inches from mine, but a furry black face, its eyes tightly closed, but its whiskers twitching—

That’s when I sit up with a jerk, disturbing not only the cat who has been sleeping so peacefully beside me, but the bowl of popcorn I’d made for dinner, which overturns onto my duvet.

The cat, irritated at being woken in such a violent manner, utters a single annoyed “Meow?” then settles back down into the warm sheets, wrapping a paw over her eyes to block out the sunlight trickling in from the sides of my blackout curtains.

Then I remember how I made popcorn for dinner and took it into my room along with my laptop in order to finish checking West Harbor’s Lost and Found Pets page. No cat matching Daisy’s description was listed, so I posted a photo of her and asked if anyone was missing her. No response (except a few earnest cat lovers to say how sweet she looks).

I was finishing up some patient notes when I heard the loudest, most heart-rending feline yowl I’ve ever heard in my life, coming from the laundry room. All the cat rescue sites said to leave the feral cat you’ve trapped in a small, secure room, away from people, for a few days until she becomes more comfortable with you and her new surroundings.

None of them said what to do if the cat begins making a sound so loud you think she’s probably being eaten alive by a coyote, so you throw open the door and rush into the room in alarm, only to have the cat you’ve just rescued look at you with an expression that can only be described as smug because she’s managed to trick you into thinking she’s hurt when she’s not.

Then she darts past you, making a beeline for your bedroom.