This gun she swiped from the officer in the hall of her home. When she made to step around him, with no actual intention of doing so. The officer who, right now, still might not know it’s missing.

Crossing Big Spruce, she tucks up a little bit into herself. She’s close to Garland now and doesn’t know exactly what she’ll do if an officer stops her, tries to bring her home. Doesn’t even want to have a plan for that.

Kit is out in the world. Somewhere. And Dana, her best friend, has a hunch.

She waits for a car to pass on Michigan Avenue. She looks through the glass and sees an older man with a mustache. No seven-foot woman in a jean jacket.

She crosses Michigan. She can see the park now. Sees a handful of silhouettes sitting together on the grass. She’s flooded with memories. Emily swishing a no-look shot. Games of PIG that became games of PIGLET that became games of THEPIGLETSONTHEFARMARESMALLERTHANTHEPIGS. Kit once blocked a shot so hard it got stuck in the fence. Dana kicked a ball out of frustration so far it almost reached all the way here, to Michigan Avenue, on the bounce. Life-and-death shit on the court in Garland Park. Truth-or-dare shit too. Questioning their futures, their drive, their friendships, their sexuality, their views on parenthood, adulthood, business, sports, entertainment, money, love, death.

A lot of those questions, of course, answered by the rims.

Dana is close enough to see none of the figures are Kit.

It’s Stewart, Brandon, and Little Richard instead.

This urgency she feels is unfathomable. Is this how Kit felt when she called 911 on herself? That was a scary moment for Dana.

Ahead, Brandon slowly stands up.

Maybe they know something. Maybe they saw something. Maybe they’re out here for doing what Dana and Kit have done so many times at Garland Park:

Maybe the boys are out here dealing with it.

“Hey!” Dana calls.

Surely they see the urgency in her step. Her posture. Her eyes.

“Dana,” Stewart says. Now all three boys are standing. They look to the main roads. No doubt worried the police would ask them all to go home. But the police, of course, are mostly occupied in the driveways of the remaining members of the Samhattan High School girls’ basketball team.

“Have you seen Kit?” Dana asks.

A flicker. The tiniest bit. In Little Richard’s eye.

Dana doesn’t hesitate.

“Tell me. The fuck. Now.”

Richard looks to the others. Brandon looks to the ground. Stewart is going to say it, though. Dana can tell.

“She said she wants to be alone,” Stewart says. “She’s okay.”

The relief Dana feels is overwhelming. Like she could collapse here, become a pile of folded clothes on the concrete.

Still. “And what the fuck does okay mean right now, Stewart? Tell me that.” Then, “When did you see her? And where?”

“Earlier today. Outside Third-and-Fourth-Eye,” Stewart says. “Look, Dana. She really wants to be alone. She was going off about…about clearing her mind. She said she needed to go someplace where she could…really clear her mind. Alone.”