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“They went into the woods to check the traps. Just for a little bit. They had a walkie. They were supposed to stay close.”

I tighten my grip on her arms before I can stop them, but she doesn’t flinch.

“They didn’t come back. I tried the walkie. Nothing. I thought maybe the battery died, so I went looking. Earl tried too. Edith stayed by the vehicles in case they came back, but I found the other walkie and . . .”

Her voice breaks.

I let go of her long enough to point toward the trees.

Take me.

Now.

Mom’s face crumples.

Then I see what Edith has been clutching to her chest.

Poppy’s bow.

The grip wrapped where I fixed it for her. The string slightly frayed near the top because she kept pulling too hard when she practiced. A smear of dirt cuts across the little star she drew near the grip in permanent marker.

Blood stains the wood.

My vision goes red at the edges.

Someone says my name. Maybe Trish. Maybe Jacob. It doesn’t matter.

I take the bow from Edith with both hands, careful in a way that feels obscene. Like it might break. Like touching it wrong might make this real. Two arrows are still in the little quiver. One is snapped. Blood stains the fletching. Blood marks the strap.

Poppy’s blood?

Clair’s?

Someone else’s?

The questions come too fast. I lock up. No air. Only the bow in my hands and Clair’s face in the gray morning light and Poppy’s small arms around my neck.

Thank you for making my mom happy.

A sound tries to tear out of me.

It has nowhere to go.

Jacob steps in front of me, hands lifted. “Brother. Breathe.”

I shake my head. No breathing. No calming down. Not until I have them.

Earl nods toward the trees. “This way.”

Everyone moves.

I don’t check if they follow. I run where Earl points, Poppy’s bow in one hand and mine in the other, and the woods swallow us in seconds. Branches whip at my face. Leaves crush under my boots. The light is lower in here, thin and dirty, filtering through bare limbs and tangled brush. Every shadow looks like a body. Every snapped twig looks like proof. Every breath tastes like dirt and panic.

Jacob catches up beside me, rifle in hand. “Leon.”

I don’t look at him.

“We’re going to find them.”