We washed ashore behind a woodcarving and taxidermy shop. It had an old boat launch that was overgrown with weeds and sloped down to the river. It jutted out enough for me to snag the oar into the mud and pull us from the now idling current. Safe for now.

It was still very dark out, and with my two hours training on orienteering I had no idea what time it was. Kaylee and I walked up to the road, lugging our suitcases. Aunt Ellen would be mad at us for getting them so dirty, but I wasn’t planning on her finding out.

“I thought dad was here,” Kaylee grumbled.

“He’s down the road.” I didn’t know where he was. He certainly wasn’t in the state and he wasn’t showing up any time soon. I had to come up with something to explain or she’d lose it. I’ve seen my sister get mad before and I also saw the hole in the wall after the tirade. She didn’t have a wall this time. Just me.

Traffic was scarce, and the wind was stirring, making the whole town feel ghostly. As we reached the sidewalk, we were surrounded by a battalion of hand-carved lawn decorations, from a six-foot-tall bear fighting an eagle to the butt of some grandma tending to her flowers.

“This way,” I said, waving Kaylee to follow.

Scarlborough wasn’t more bigger than a bird’s nest, and half of the buildings were empty or falling apart. The lone sign of life was a gas station at the end of the street. Its lights glowed white hot in the darkness, but there were vehicles parked in front; an old pickup truck and one that looked like a police car.

As Kaylee and I got closer, we could see two people sitting inside the station. The guy behind the counter had his hat on backwards and was pointing around in different directions. In my mind, I worried that Camp Chokochakee had sounded the alarm and word had reached town already. He was telling his customers the story of a couple kids who just weeks ago were mildly enjoying dinner at home with their father, but then this happened and that, which took them here and there. And now here. So keep your eyes out.

I stopped and looked at the truck a second time. It was just a rusty jalopy, not some truck the camp owned. And the police car. It wasn’t even a police car, just a taxicab painted over with white and black and patches of Bondo.

“Is dad here?”

“We’ll see,” I said, walking us to the front door. We clanged the bell of the front door upon entering, and they turned to look. The cashier and the infamous white hat kid.