One strange thing I notice is that I don’t see any birds or squirrels, rabbits or toads, even though I know they’re here somewhere. It’s like the woods have lost their magic. I take the path all the way to the pond. But when I get there, it’s deserted. I was sure he’d be here waiting for me. I circle the entire pond, walking along the edge of the water, my boots punching through the underbrush into holes and soft spots in the earth. Dewey sniffs alongside me.

I cup my hands around my mouth and yell, as loud as I can, “Gramps?”

I call out again, and I can see from the corner of my eye, Noah is checking his phone, his eyes crinkled with worry. Dewey howls—a siren call to Gramps. I sit down on the broken tree stump, and I close my eyes, concentrate on my thoughts, and try, with everything I have, to tell Gramps, Please come home.

Noah finally gets me to believe Gramps isn’t coming, and we run the whole way back to beat the sunset. Noah sits at the counter and runs his hands through his damp hair. The quiet is sticky and cold. I feel myself shaking. “I thought for sure he’d be there, Noah—I’m really getting worried now.”

“I know; so am I.” Noah sounds scared too, which makes me even more scared.

A car door slams, and Mom walks in.

“Did you find him?” I shout.

Mom shakes her head. “Mama dropped me off. She’s going to keep driving around looking for him. I’ve got to start making some more calls. It’s getting darker and colder out there.”

I pace back and forth across the living room, while Mom makes phone calls to hospitals and Gramps’s old neighbors in his apartment building and even Macy’s father, asking if anyone has seen him.

Dinnertime comes and goes. And still nothing.

“Mom?” I whisper, joining her at the kitchen table where she’s been scribbling notes on a pad of paper. “I’m really sorry.”

She cuts her eyes to me and sighs. “I know.” But what I really want her to say is, “It’s okay,” or “It’s going to be okay,” or “It’s not your fault.”

I try again. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“I know,” she repeats, more firmly, focusing on her notepad so hard she won’t even look at me.

“Mom, I feel terrible,” I add.

She slams her pen down on the pad of paper. “Sadie, please!” she shouts. “I know you’re sorry. I know you feel terrible, but—I can’t—I have to focus on this right now. I don’t have time to”—she pauses, picks up the pen, and, under her breath, mutters—“make you feel better.”