I told Aunt Maureen I needed a break from camp, and she didn’t question my motives. For the next four days, Kennedy and I either rode bikes to town or had an adult drop us off. They didn’t know it, but we were searching for the old man in the yellow scarf.

We’d start at the park by the general store, then make our way up one side of Pine and back down the other in what seemed like an infinite loop but usually only lasted two or three hours. That was all we could stand before heat or boredom got to us.

At first, I was afraid we’d find him.

By Sunday, I was mad we hadn’t.

That afternoon, full of the ice cream we’d just inhaled across the street, Kennedy and I sat on the park bench where I’d first seen the man.

“Maybe you imagined him,” Kennedy said.

There’s a word for seeing people who aren’t there, the voice said with disdain. It’s called hallucinating.

I didn’t hallucinate! I said defensively in my head—and weakly out loud.

“I didn’t say you did.” Kennedy bounced her knee. “Want to play Frisbee again?”

“Not really.” I watched a little girl fall off her miniature pink scooter, her dad rushing to help her up.

“Maybe he was a tourist,” Kennedy said. “Maybe he doesn’t even live here, and he’s back home in Montana or whatever.” Whatevah.

“Maybe,” I said, defeated. My sundress blew in the breeze and tickled the back of my calf. “We should just have Uncle Bran pick us up and forget it. I’m going back to camp tomorrow.”

“Don’t lose hope!” Kennedy said with forced energy. “Remember that book we found that lists people’s phone numbers and addresses? Which is so stalker, by the way. But we can use it to our advantage! We’ll find every William, Will, or Billy in town, then go to their houses.”

The internet had told us that there were more than four million people in the country with the name William, and that it was the sixth most popular name. Even though Pinedale was a small town, there still had to be a lot of them.

“Okay, let’s do that.”

I stood up and started walking toward the exit of the park, Kennedy following me, knowing we weren’t actually going to do that.

We’d hit a dead end.

That evening, waiting for Aunt Maureen to finish cooking her famous spaghetti and meatballs, I drenched myself in bug spray and climbed up on Colette’s rock, then called Frankie.

“Why do you always wake me up?” she said in greeting.

“It’s five o’clock your time,” I said, wondering why she’d been asleep instead of hanging out with Kai or getting ready for dinner herself.

“So?”