@bassicrhythm:Hammill and Hawthorne are here too
@badprincess:that’s convenient
@colonelmustard:I think it’s nice that the swim team showed up
@colonelmustard:you know, considering
@badprincess:please. all of them showed up for the publicity
@badprincess:meanwhile, they didn’t care at all when they were trashing Lucy’s reputation
@highasakyle:sure
@highasakyle:but you could say the same about us
@pawsandclaws:maybe they’re here because they feel guilty
@nononycky:what do you mean?
@pawsandclaws:why did Lucy burn our mascot?
@warcraftlordandlegend:idk. Because she’s deranged?
@hannahbanana:I thought we agreed that Lucy Vale has serious problems
@hannahbanana:right? Didn’t we all agree on that?
@hannahbanana:hello?
No one answered. We didn’t know what to say.
It seemed like Lucy Vale had problems, for sure. But standing there in the thin spring sunlight, hemmed in by the crowd that had come to search for her, we realized: we really had no clue where Lucy Vale might have gone.
In the end, we really didn’t know much about her.
We fanned out through the woods, staying arm’s lengths from our neighbors. “No point in getting a second person lost in these trees,” Deputy Stern joked. We didn’t laugh.
The sky was the chafed color of old denim. The woods were full of desperate daffodils, pushing valiantly through a scrum of rotting leaves. The trees were eking out their first green onto water-parched branches. The ground covering was so dry, it cracked beneath our footsteps like the report of a gun. The late winter snows had done little to resolve Indiana’s drought. When we gathered at the lip of Fallow’s Creek, we found it gone. The water was down to its last filthy dribbles, leaving a hollowed-out rut of sludge and fallen branches that whipped out of sight.
Four separate volunteer groups searched the state park, an unruly twelve-thousand-acre swath of woods and campgrounds, fishing ponds and bird sanctuaries. Other volunteers gathered at a constellation of trailheads that bracketed the densest part of the forest, cordoning off a three-square-mile portion of the park where a hiker had reported seeing a girl who matched Lucy’s description, apparently headed north through the woods. We learned later that more than eight hundred people convened over three days to search for Lucy.
We tried not to think about the Lucy we might find. We steered clear of the cadaver dogs straining at their leashes. We snuck messages to one another, trying to lighten the mood.
@mememeup:did anyone bring snacks?
@mememeup:I’m already hungry
@badprincess:I can’t believe Mrs. Devane brought her kids
@badprincess:this isn’t, like, a field trip??
@warcraftlordandlegend:depends on what we find
The woods rebounded Lucy’s name as we called out to her. We slogged through the dry rot of winters past, pushing through tangles of witch hazel and chokeberry bushes that clutched our jeans as we navigated the slopes parallel to the exposed creek bed. Volunteers in lurid orange looked like flames along the trails. The trees thinned the sunlight into pinwheel shafts that barely warmed us. A sharp wind rose,carrying the smell of ice. Minutes cycled by, marking the repetition of our calls.Lucy. Lucy Vale. Lucy.
We lost track of time. Lucy’s name began to sound foreign, losing its tether to the girl, to the point. In the echoing shouts of distant search teams, we imagined a conversation. A call and response that held the mystery.
Lucy. Lucy Vale.
