After a guzzle from her root beer, she slides the ribbon from the package and peels open the paper. She shakes the box. It rattles. “Hmm. Jewelry?”
Unable to hold back my grin, I shrug.
She pulls the lid back, then lifts the small silver key from inside, a look of bewilderment on her face.
“You’re gonna need wheels pretty soon.”
Tears prick her eyes. “A car? Dad.” She wipes her eyes, and glares at me. Or maybe it’s just the sun. “You bought me a car?”
“It’s a used car. But it’s got new tires, a new stereo, and a refurbished engine. We can pick it up and get it licensed on Monday.”
She leaps against me, slinging her arms around my neck. Laughing, I hold her tight.
Nobody tells you that the highs of parenting are edged with grief. Every day, my kid pushes a little farther into the universe. A little farther away from me. That it hurts is an indication that my love for her is real and bone-deep, a reminder that nothing good inthis life comes without cost. In this moment, I let it all sink in. The pride I feel for my kid. The fear of the unknown. The love that will never fade.
Our descent takes us around the backside of the mountain. We jump in the river to cool off and reach the trailhead by early evening. But the instant I spot my truck, I know something’s not right.
There’s a giant hole in the center of the cab’s back window.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” Greta frowns up at me.
There are two other cars here, but the gravel lot is otherwise deserted. One car is parked facing the map placard next to the trail entrance, and the other is on the far side, facing away. Neither car has a smashed window.
“Looks like we might have had a break in.” I give the area one last scan.
“Oh no,” Greta says.
Though I’m convinced we’re alone, I’m on high alert: the gravel crunching under our shoes sounds extra loud and my shallow breaths seem to echo off the trees.
I fold down my tailgate and we drop our packs inside the bed.
“Why would someone break in? “Greta asks, her face pinched. “It’s not like we left any valuables visible. We never do.”
I fight my annoyance. Break-ins happen in remote areas sometimes. “I don’t know.”
Because of the tall trees fringing the lot, the inside of my cab is heavily shaded. Besides the bits of shattered glass scattered across the empty space behind the seat where I keep a jug of water, my first aid kit, and a stack of folded up towels, nothing looks disturbed. Just a few cubes of glass on the bench seat and the floor from the impact of whatever tool was used to break the back window. The glove box is shut. To make it even more confusing, the door is locked. Why would someone break the window and not look around inside?
There’s a nagging thought tugging at the edge of my mind, but before I can tease it to the surface, both of our phones ding. We must have gotten service.
“Do you want me to call Uncle Everett?” Greta asks.
“I will.” I dig my phone from the recesses of my pack. When I unlock it, there first thing I see on the screen is a message from Everett.
CALL ME
I scan for a message from Meg. My summit selfie photo went through sometime during our descent, but she hasn’t replied.
The nightmare image of a crashing plane engulfed in flames flickers to life inside my mind, but I force it back and call Everett. He answers on the first ring.
“Everyone is okay.” His voice is tense, a little rapid. Ringing phones and chatter fill the background—he’s at the station.
“The fuck?” I say under my breath.
He replies in a low tone, “Russel Locke’s MIA. We have him entering a SEATAC terminal this morning after a four-day Alaska rotation but so far we can’t find him leaving. He hasn’t returned to his apartment and he’s not returning my calls.”
I blink at the shaded woods, trying to make sense of this. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Everett is keeping close tabs on Russet, given some of the odd things he’s let slip, but why is he telling me this?
“Where’s Meg?”
