We work in tandem. Silent. Our movements swift and practiced. Teddy checks the hinges, takes a step back, and drives his heel into the door. Something scurries in the leaves, and the owl takes flight.

I move first, Teddy close behind me.

Inside, low wooden ceilings trap in the damp, musky scent—it’s more potent now, and heavy, too, like an animal’s den. We’re standing with our backs against the wall in the kitchen. The counter’s littered with dirty dishes, empty aluminum cans, and half-eaten frozen dinners—nonperishable things found in cupboards and freezers. No fast food. Nothing to indicate he’s left the house in weeks.

Yellow-colored paper runs the length of the wall to the right and continues into the dining area. The left side is obscured by a cupboard and pale green shelves with tiny hearts etched into the corners.

That buzzing again, so light I can barely hear it above the rhythm of our breaths.

I risk a glance at Teddy.

Television, he mouths, and gestures with his elbow to the faint colors flickering on the far wall.

And now I do hear them, the waves transmitting invisible patterns of images and sounds. The faint hum of voices.

Teddy motions for me to follow.

I catch a glimmer of something in the corner of my eye, and turn. To the right of the shelves, matted against a green felt board, are framed pins from the ’96 Atlanta Olympic games, dozens of colorful torches, and, below them, a fist-sized hole.

We move slowly and silently. The living area is a collection of mismatched furniture oriented around an old box television. At the center is a cloth loveseat, shapeless from decades of abuse, and a red-and-black quilt thrown haphazardly across its frame.

In the middle of the sofa, head and shoulders backlit from the fuzzy light of the television, sits Colin.

A floorboard creaks beneath Teddy’s feet, and I grip my gun tighter, but Colin doesn’t move or make any indication he’s heard. I take another step. His shoulders are still, and I realize the other thing that’s bothering me, the strange sensation I’ve felt since we barreled through the door—the house is no warmer than the woods outside. It’s so cold, I can see tiny puffs of breath around Teddy’s mouth. The numbness has returned to my fingers and taken hold of my toes.

We step to either side of the sofa. And I’m prepared for Colin to turn a gun on me, prepared for him to be gray faced, dead from an overdose, or to find black stains covering his shirt from a shot to the chest. What I’m not prepared for is for him to turn, with just the slightest inclination of his head, and say, “Hello.”

Teddy pivots in front of the sofa.

“Colin Haines,” I say, my voice oddly hollow.