Quincy said Jamal wouldn’t go far, but he never knew about this old place. It’s Jamal’s and my secret.

At the thought of finding Jamal, I run faster until I reach a break in the trees. The shack still stands. Neglected, with paint chipped away from years of rain, sun, and storms. The windows shaded by old, tattered pillowcases and bedsheets.

My breath goes heavy. Feet hollering, hot and burning, but not in as much pain as my aching heart for Jamal.

I look behind me, confirm I didn’t bring trouble for Jamal. All clear, I touch the shack. My fingers crumble the paint, wood splinters digging into my skin.

When I’m certain that I’m completely alone, I go around the back and peek through a side window.

The door handle is kicked in, so I enter.

I’m overwhelmed with stale, dusty air, years of the shack dying inside with no one there. I want to scream out Jamal’s name in victory, like we would as kids playing hide-and-go-seek with Corinne. I wish she were with me now.

My fingers touch along the yellowed, lined walls as I walk across the half-rotten floors that were damaged by a leak from the roof. I pass a kerosene lamp hanging on a rusty hook. The dust swept away, recently used. I notice a small table with newspapers, the dates as recent as a week ago. I steady my breath, heart beating fast, then go to the second door that’s ajar. You can tell the foundation’s cracked and the door can’t stay put. A Texas wind rushing under doors and through windows would be strong enough to open it. But I hope that was Jamal and not some storm.

With the light touch of a hand, I push the door and see the broad shoulders of someone sitting on the floor in a makeshift bed. His back is turned against me. Hands over his head, rubbing it, with his black-and-red headphones he’s taped the cord to stay in place.

Typical Jamal, in his own head—when the whole world is looking for him.

“Jamal.” I muster a whisper. The ache builds in the back of my throat.

I found him.

Since he’s been gone, it’s like he’s been a ghost. Swept up away from us, almost worse than Daddy being gone. Because at least we could see Daddy weekly.

Jamal tips one headphone off his ear and stays real still before he gets up to look out the window.

“Jamal.”

Jamal jumps and whirls, then studies me, and it’s like he sees a ghost, too. He flips his headphones all the way off, the cord dangling around his neck. I wait for his response. Anger. Happiness.

He leans in a bit like he’s had the music on so loud he doesn’t know if he’s missed something I said.