Most of us follow, pairing off in twos, which we all agree is the way we’ve seen people do it in the movies. Partner up, so nobody else gets lost.

We find Landon on the trail to the marsh. She’s exhausted beyond crying, her face pale and drained, eyes deeply shadowed. She doesn’t speak when Trace asks, “Where have you looked?” instead gesturing vaguely in the direction we came from. That leaves a lot of woods, more than the eight or so of us can hope to cover, but we’re going anyway, into the marsh.

Bree and I pair together without words, without a plan, dovetailing down a slope covered in knee-high water grass bleached to a dry, autumnal blond, following muddy flats where standing water rises over our sneakers.

The others are already out of sight, their voices echoing back to us. Kincaid’s walking with Moon; last I saw, they were climbing the ridge above the murals, going to check out the woods that stretch that way, off toward the cemetery.

“Gross.” Bree stops, shaking mud off her laces. “You know, I bet real search parties wear things like boots.”

“Do you really think Ivy might’ve come out here?” I say.

“No. Why would she? The night was over. We all know she got home in one piece. Of all the places she could’ve gone after a fight, she comes back here? It would’ve been pitch-black out, not to mention subzero.” Bree sinks, swearing as the cuffs of her jeans get dunked. “I think Landon’s lost it, personally.” She hesitates, looking up ahead of us, her tone softening. “Look at that bird.”

It’s the egret, or a close relative, standing like a monument to patience. One leg bent, the other a stilt.

I say, “Bree,” and, at my tone, she glances back. “Remember I said we needed to talk?” She turns, the embankment of pitch pines and brush providing a stark backdrop, and maybe there’s no better place for this, no better time, nowhere more solitary. “It’s about Kincaid.”

The topic seems to surprise her. “Yeah?”

I rub my eyes. “We kind of . . . he and I have been talking, and . . .” My stomach is acid, and my mouth suddenly tastes bad, metallic, like old pennies scraped off the bottom of a wishing fountain, and I spit out the last of it because there’s no other way: “He likes me back.”