The person is entitled to have their time at the memorial.

But it really looks like the car is empty. No one’s in sight, either inside or outside.

So where are they? Back in the woods?

And why?

I work up saliva in my dry mouth and push the door open. My shoes hit the damp blacktop.

I feel warm, despite the cool rain falling. Except for the chirps of a few birds, it’s dead quiet. No other cars come by.

I move forward.

Just like they did at Chloe’s locker, people have come out and left notes and candles and stuffed animals. It’s a nice thought, at first. But they probably never come back to see what those things look like after they’ve been out in the elements for almost two weeks. Rain, wind, and passing cars have conspired to beat the shit out of this stuff. The ink on the notes has run. The stuffed animals are wet and droopy, looking abandoned and forlorn. Maybe there should be a rule about roadside memorials—they can stay for a day or two or until the weather turns bad. Then everybody has to come and collect their stuff.

My shoes crunch over the gravel. Tiny pieces of broken headlights and plastic, ones the cops left behind, litter the ground. There’s also other trash thrown away by inconsiderate drivers: plastic soda bottles, cigarette butts, a red sock. People throw out just about anything and never worry about the consequences.

The tree is huge and old and has a big gash in it. Hard to believe a car could hit this massive thing with any kind of force and still have survivors inside.

I stop a few feet from the tree. The rain continues to drizzle, pinging against my face and head. The wind blows a little, stirring up the fallen leaves, ruffling the notes and making a tiny stuffed bear shimmy on the ground.

I stand there on the edge of the road, close my eyes, and put my mind to work. I remember getting ready. I remember Dad helping me with my tie. I remember going to eat at Hannah’s house by the lake. It was a fancy meal—some kind of Italian chicken—prepared by their housekeeper.

I remember the early part of the dance, walking into the gym and hearing the music. I remember dancing with Chloe at least once. Maybe twice.

And then…

Nothing.

My head starts to ache again.

I try to imagine what it must have been like when we walked out to the parking lot and headed for the car. Ron says we argued, but that doesn’t fit what I know about us. And I have no idea what we could have been arguing about…unless it was about having sex again that night.