“Any luck, Tommy?” Bruce called from the steps of the Mercantile.

I pulled my face out of my coat long enough to say, “Still looking,” then retreated like a turtle in the clutches of an alligator. The smell of wet dog permeated the layers of polyester batting. “The Beast” whipped his tail against the pine steps, but didn’t rise to greet me.

I stepped past Bruce and the door groaned shut, followed by the clank of the cowbell. “Sheriff said anything?”

He patted my shoulder. “Nope. Hang in there, son.”

Idiot Sheriff. If he’d allow his daughter an inch of freedom… I shook the thought away.

I stomped ice from my feet and inhaled the saltiness of fried bacon. Heading past the neatly-stacked aisles, I cringed at the earthy tune playing overhead. “Hidey ho, Holly,” I said with less enthusiasm than intended. She had a never-ending appetite for flutes… and musicians. “What’s this?” I pointed up. “Ode to a Waterfall?”

She grinned from behind the counter, then threw another slice of bacon on the grill. She didn’t flinch when it snapped hot grease back at her.

“What can I getcha, Tommy?”

“Hot chocolate.”

She eyed me. “Haven’t found her, huh?”

“And whipped cream.”

She drained a pitcher of molten chocolate into a mug and swirled a loop of whipped cream on top.

I sat by the window defrosting my hands on the steamy drink. Fog settled around the trees, hiding the lake. Just like the clue I needed—it was there, but I couldn’t see it.

The last time I saw Enna, she was just outside, blonde waves frosted with snow, lips making blowfishes on the window. I’d laughed, and we’d put our hands and foreheads together, separated by nothing but iced glass. “You’re it.” she said, her voice muffled through the window.

“One more day?” I mouthed.

She only smiled and waved goodbye. That was a week ago, and berry lip gloss still smudged the window.

Then, I saw it.

I imagined her fingers squeaking across the condensation. “He… Is…” My hands were an earthquake. Hot liquid sloshed onto the table. I bent forward and exhaled, revealing the rest of the message on the glass. “Heard Island,” I gasped.

Her voice echoed in memory, “If we dug straight through Earth, we’d end up on Heard Island. Wanna try?”

I licked the frothy sweetness from one finger and wiped the rest on my jeans. I went to the framed map, bumpy with the rainbow of pins that tourists use to say, “I was here.” Heard Island stood lonely in the Antarctic waters. No pins, no message.

“Found something?” Bruce swung a dirty white towel over his shoulder, holding back a smile. He was hiding information. I knew it.

“You know where she is?” It came out more like an accusation.

He chewed the inside of his cheek, but said nothing above the amusement in his eyes.

“There’s no way Sheriff would let her go all the way to the other side of the world. Not for me.”

His round belly shook before the laugh escaped his mouth. “Darn right. But, you hopping a plane to find her would make his day, wouldn’t it?” He shoved a toothpick under his tongue and turned to leave.

“Where is she?”

He held his hands up and retreated. “Close. Now, keep me out of your weird little game.”

I slammed my fist against the wall, and the map jumped an inch. “On the other side of the world,” I whispered. Gently, I pulled the frame off the wall found a post-it note. It said, “Turn around.” I spun, heart pounding at the sight of her. “Enna, how’d you–”

“Finally,” she said, tapping her index finger against her hip. “Took you long enough.”

I stopped her with an eager kiss, then smiled, stroking her lavender-scented hair.

“Say it,” she whispered.

“No.” I kissed her again, pulling her body against mine.

She pushed away and kept one hand on my chest as a barrier. It may as well have been iced glass. “Say it before he finds us.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do this anymore. This is torture, you know that?”

Her gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m not ready yet. This is the only way we can–”

“Tag,” I blurted. I couldn’t bear to hear all the reasons again. “You’re it.”

Her eyes sparkled, ready for the challenge. So, I disregarded the sick feeling that we were playing two different games.

My Love,

I swear you’re haunting me.

Today I sat on our big rock. You know, where the stream trickles into the lake? I closed my eyes, savoring how the western sun warms my face, how the oars splash and pull through the water, how the reflections dance across my eyelids…

Then I thought of you and pulled my jacket zipper higher.

You once said, “I don’t care how much moss is on this. It’s still as hard as a rock.” I laughed because it is a rock. I remembered how I shouldn’t have laughed at you, then brushed moss off my jeans and followed the stream toward home.

You loved autumn here, and how the maples frame the stream like a red and golden tunnel to the bridge. Fallen leaves float past, deteriorating with each stone they hit. Everything, from the scent of decaying leaves to the smell of wet wood reminds me of death, and you.

Jimmy’s rusted pickup rumbled in the distance, so I took my chances under the bridge to avoid the grit of exhaust and dust in my mouth. The water soaked through my shoes, and my toes threatened to shatter like ice with each step on the slimy stones.

Once on the other side, the Mercantile spewed smoke. The smell of grilled onions lured me to the steps. Bruce invited me in, the cowbell clunking over his head from swinging the door too fast. I followed him no further than the door frame.

He’d caught us stealing bottles from the back of his store, and turning them back in for the recycle money. We’d painted the trim white as punishment. Now, I run my fingers across peeled layers that expose green underneath.

Has it been that long?

“Today’s children should be taught how to paint,” Beth mumbled around her cigarette. She scribbled on a clipboard, then clicked Beethoven’s Fifth with the retractable pen.

“Not again,” I groaned. “We don’t need any more aspiring Van Goghs cutting their ears off.” I barely caught her clipboard before it hit my chest.

Her cigarette flared, and smoke puffed from her nose like the angry bulls you see on cartoons. Since her demotion, everything I said was a big red cape to her.

“Not fine art, idiot. I meant walls. Look around. Think of how a work force of twenty children with rollers could improve this place!”

“Don’t you remember the cleaning crew last week? Physical labor is too much for them. Their strengths lie in their minds. You know that.”

She dropped the butt and ground it into the linoleum with her bedazzled pink tennis shoes. “Don’t you wonder . . .”

“What? You can tell me.”

She made eye contact for the first time that day, just long enough to make sure I was watching her when she rolled her eyes.

“Seriously. I’m sorry about the kid . . .”

“Daphne.”

“Yes, Daphne. I’m sorry I ratted you out, but you know what happens when you withhold that kind of information.”

Her lip curled. She looked over her shoulder and hissed, “Yeah, well, you didn’t think about what they’d do to me for keeping one of them!”

I shrugged. “Hey, that was your decision. You know these kids are created for one-day use. Daphne could have killed you. Or worse, me. You saw how crazy she got by day four. It wasn’t going to work.”

Her shoulders slumped. She sighed, snatching the clipboard back from me. “So, if you don’t have a better idea, today’s children will be taught how to paint . . . the walls. Tomorrow’s children will continue the missile design.”