I take the same road we drove the other night and park next to the boarded-up depot building. A bright red-and-white sign warns me against trespassing but I get out of my car, anyway, after telling Max to stay put. The train station doesn’t look quite as scary as it did in the dark of night but with the tall, weedy grass and the abandoned rusty boxcars it’s still eerie.

With one foot I test the steps that lead up to the depot platform. The wood cracks and pops with my weight so instead I hoist myself up, the rough concrete biting into my knees and the palms of my hands. I stand, brush the grit and dirt from my hands, and look out over the train yard. A scrap of yellow crime tape lies on the ground near where Violet collapsed. The only sound I hear is the rustle of the tall winter wheat waving back and forth in the light breeze.

Dozens of boxcars with rusty pockmarks sit throughout the yard. Violet could be in any one of them or in none at all.

First, I walk around the depot building. The brick is cracked and crumbling but each window and door is sealed up tight with heavy plywood. I can’t find any way that Violet could have gotten inside.

That leaves the boxcars. I hop down from the platform and make my way to the nearest car and look inside. Its corners are filled with cobwebs and candy wrappers and crushed beer cans but no Violet. I move on to the next car, this one tipped on its side. I peer over the edge and an animal, a mouse or ground squirrel, blinks back at me, then scurries away. Violet’s not here, either.

The third car sits back away from the others and is nearly swallowed up by the tall grass that has grown up around it, nearly concealing the faded, flaking paint that spells out Primrose Sugar. The area around the side door seems undisturbed but I decide to check, anyway. I wade through the grass, its stalks scratching at my chin. Unlike the other boxcars, the door to this one is only open a bit.

The tall grass blocks the sun from reaching the opening so I pull out my cell and shine its light through the narrow opening. Nothing. I’m about to move on to the next car when I hear a whimper.

“Violet?” I say, trying to see through the darkness. There’s no answer. I yank on the door, trying to open it so I can get inside, but it’s rusted in place.

The opening is only about six inches wide but if I turn sideways I might fit. I squeeze my upper body through the small opening and scan the far corners of the car with the light from my cell phone.