Nephy held court from a plastic chaise lounge in the shade, surrounded by a group of the littler kids eating their leftover Halloween candy. She looked up over the rim of her sunglasses, eyes lined with dark, like a wild cat’s, lashes crisped with mascara. Izzy could see Nephy’s naval poking out like the top of a finger pushing up from damp sand.

“Hey, queen,” Nephy said. She moved her hands in the air like a mesmerist so her silver rings and fresh white-tipped acrylics caught sunlight.

Could the ethyl methacrylate and polymethacrylate in the acrylic formula harm a baby in the womb, Izzy found herself thinking. And did the baby have fingernails of its own by now?

“Have you seen Cyrus?” she asked, bringing herself back.

“Wait, what?”

“He wasn’t there when I got up this morning.”

“Did he go to Twentynine Palms?”

“No, he left his truck at home.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Has Seth heard from him?”

“Seth’s getting beer. We had that haunted house thing here for the kids last night. You can try to call him.”

A kid—little kid, maybe ten—wiped out and Nephy got up and went to him. She kneeled and comforted the crying boy, wiping his nose on the hem of her T-shirt.

“I have to go,” Izzy said.

Nephy glanced back over her oiled shoulder. “Call if you need us.”

“Thanks,” Izzy said.

“Of course. We’re always here for you.”

Izzy heard the kids in the pool grinding concrete like teeth or the bones of fish. When she got back into her car, she called Seth, but he didn’t pick up. Then she forced herself to call the local hospitals and emergency rooms. “Twenty-seven-year-old man, six feet two inches, black hair, hazel eyes,” she repeated. Nothing. Good, she told herself. That’s good. He hasn’t been hurt.

◆◆◆

Cyrus’s parents, Del and Jody, sat on the dilapidated front porch of their house drinking soda. Izzy pulled up next to Del’s rusted out truck. When Cyrus and his brother Joe were kids, Del, an ex-marine, set off bombs in the sand dunes for fun. Cyrus would cower under the kitchen table until Del forced him out. He could pick Cyrus up easily then, by the scruff of his neck, before Cyrus outgrew him by two inches. “Don’t be a pussy,” Del said. “It’ll make you a man.”

Izzy approached, kicking tumbleweeds that tried to catch witchily at her jeans and Converse. She wanted to take off her hoodie—it was getting hell of hot—but she’d hurried out of the house without a bra. Del stood, scowling past her from under his cowboy hat at Cyrus’s truck.

“Where’s Cyrus?” he asked.

“Hi, Iz,” Jody said. She was freckled, auburn-haired-and-eyed, short and heavy-set, the complete opposite of Del and clearly not Cyrus’s bio-mom, though you could see her in Joe. She’d tried her best to take care of both her kids, but it just wasn’t enough. “Want a Coke?”

“No, thanks, Jody.” Izzy stopped at the base of the porch. “I’m here ’cause I don’t know where Cyrus is. I woke up this morning and he was gone.”