Sarah Durst - The Lost

At last, Peter calls a halt.

“Nice haul,” he says approvingly.

I’m coated in sweat and dirt and grime, but I’ve scored multiple slivers of mostly used soap and a nice wash towel, in addition to a new dress. I feel strangely proud, even though I’ve stolen from a dead man and failed to find a way home. There’s an odd thrill to scavenging. I bask in Peter’s approval as if it’s warm sunlight.

“Now you don’t need me anymore,” he declares.

And like that, the feel of sunlight vanishes. “Yes! Yes, I do. I found a few pretzels, a towel, but no way home, and the townspeople still want me dead. If any had caught me—”

“Shh.” He puts his fingers to my lips. “You don’t need me—you’re merely needy.”

I swallow. Don’t speak.

“Others need me more,” he says. “Lost people wander into the void every day. If I don’t bring them out, they give into their despair and fade away. As much as I enjoyed spending the day with you—” His fingers move from my lips and brush my cheek. For an instant, I see something in his eyes—sadness? Longing? Need? “I have responsibilities.”

Never mind other lost people, I want to say. I want to beg him to stay, to keep me safe, to keep me distracted from realizing how trapped I am. “Are you coming back?”

“You and Claire will do fine on your own.”

“But...” I search for an excuse. “What about your vendetta?”

“You know the basics. You’ll survive fine without me.”

I am not nearly as confident. “I don’t even know how to find home—the house, I mean, the yellow house. And it’s nearly dark—”

He points over my shoulder, and I turn.

Dusk has washed away the distinction between shadows, I see the yellow house. “Oh.” Looking back at him, I try to think of another reason for him to stay. Before I can, I see his expression change, darker and harder. He catches my arm and pulls me down behind an overturned wheelbarrow. “What...” I begin.

He places a finger on my lips again. He’s close, inches away. I hear his breath, and I feel the warmth of his body. His muscles are tense.

The front door is wide-open.

Claire draws her knife and darts forward. She scampers around the junk pile, and she creeps onto the porch. I remember she’s just a kid. It’s easy to forget. “Are you sure we should let—”

“I’m sure you talk too much,” Peter says in my ear. I feel his breath on my neck.

Claire disappears into the house.

I stare at the house as if I could force my eyes to see through walls.

I don’t hear any sounds, except for the sound of Peter’s breath and the wind across the desert. Beyond our house, the darkening desert is empty except for scrub brush, cacti, and tumbleweeds that skitter across the dirt until they are impaled on a bush or cactus. I’d thought there were more houses in that direction. Maybe not. Maybe I have a bad memory. Or maybe the houses vanished back into the void. Peter had said the void was like quicksand or a black hole. I want to ask him if it can suck away houses, but I don’t want him to shush me again.

Several minutes pass. Claire doesn’t return.

What if someone’s inside? What if they’ve hurt her? What if they’re hurting her right now? I stand, not sure if I should sneak inside or charge to her rescue. Peter grabs my shoulder and forces me down.

Claire bursts out the front door and barrels across the yard. “He’s gone!”

Peter catches her as she slams into him. Sobbing, she sinks onto the ground. He strokes her hair and holds her against his chest.

I kneel next to her and look her over for signs that she’s been hurt. “Are you okay? What happened? Who’s gone?”

She wails. “Prince Fluffernutter!”

“Hey, hush, hush, don’t say a word, I’m going to buy you a mockingbird,” Peter croons. “Remember what I am? I’m the Finder. I’ll find you a new one, a better one.”

“I don’t want a new one! I want Prince Fluffernutter!”

He scoops her up and carries her toward the house. “Then no new one. Let’s look for him, okay? He can’t have gone far.” Arms wrapped around his neck, she blubbers into his shoulder. He’s gentle with her, like the kindest big brother in the world. I follow behind and wonder if whoever took the bear, whoever left the front door open, is still here. It’s already dusk. The shadows have lengthened and are darkening, and the house looks dark inside. He carries her through the front door. “You take the bedrooms,” he says to me. “I’ll search the rest.” He carries Claire into the dining room.

I’m alone in the hallway, the door open behind me.

I close it, lock it. Then I wonder how we’ll escape if someone else is here. I unlock it. Then I lock it again and step back. I wish I’d found a knife like Claire’s instead of a summer dress. I shed the backpack and use it to block the door, most likely ineffectively.

Stepping as softly as I can, I cross to Claire’s bedroom first, and I halt in the doorway. Someone has been here. The drawers have been yanked out. The closet is open. All the sheets are off the bed in a tangle. Taking a deep breath, I check the closet.

Empty.

Under the bed.

Empty.

Behind the door.

Also clear.

I repair the bed, stretching out the sheet, fluffing the pillow, and laying down the blanket. I find her old bear Teddy tangled in the blanket, but the new bear doesn’t miraculously appear. I place Teddy on the pillow. I then check behind the bedside table and in its drawer. I look in every drawer and again in the closet. Tucked in one drawer I find a photo album. I open it. Smiling faces of a family—a mother, a father, a girl about Claire’s age but with strawberry-blond hair and freckles. In the first photo, they’re posing in front of a white house with red shutters. The house has a green lawn, as well as a neatly trimmed hedge of bushes in front of the porch. There are wind chimes and a potted plant with red flowers—geraniums, I think. Mom would have known. Another photo has the mother and daughter hugging in front of the ocean. Foamy waves swirl over their bare feet. The mother’s flesh sags around her bathing suit, but her smile lifts her face up so that she looks as full of life as the daughter who holds a broken seashell in one hand. The seashell is on the shelf over the desk. I cross to it and pick it up.

I wonder if this album reminds Claire of her mom—or if she only wishes that it did.

“Any luck?” Peter says from the doorway.

My fingers close around the seashell and then I force myself to put it back on the shelf. I shut the album and lay it on the dresser. I don’t look at Peter. There are tears in my eyes, heating the corners of my eyes, but I don’t want him to see. I shake my head.

I don’t have any mementoes or photos with me of Mom.

“Lunch boxes are gone, too. As are a bunch of utensils, like the can opener.” This is the first time I’ve seen him actually annoyed. His forehead crinkles, marring the perfection of his handsome face. “Damn scavengers.” He doesn’t seem to notice the hypocrisy in his words, given our day’s activities.

Claire appears behind Peter. She’s holding Mr. Rabbit. Solemnly, she delivers it to me. “He’s safe.” Her voice catches a little.

I take the rabbit and nod toward her bed. “So’s he.”

“Guess they were too old to take.”

“Guess so.” She’s not crying anymore, but her cheeks are stained with dried tears. I lift Mr. Rabbit up to my ear. “What’s that? You want to belong to Claire? No, I’m not offended. Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” I put the rabbit in Claire’s arms. “He’s sorry about your other bear and wants to be yours now.”

Claire tucks the rabbit under one arm and then throws her other arm around my neck. I feel the hilt of her knife digging into my ribs as she squeezes me tight. “What if they take him tomorrow?” she asks. Her grip around my neck is tighter than a turtleneck.