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“Does my father know about all that?” Phil asked the cosmos as if the setting sun would provide him with any answers.

“I don’t know. He never mentioned anything like that, but if he bought the place, surely he had to know about the past disappearances,” I whispered, slightly queasy to think about little kids being taken by…well, it sure as hell wasn’t a damn bear. Not one that had lived from the late ’70s to today. A strange wisp of wind blew down the long stretch of motel rooms. It carried the scent of agarwood. The smell startled me slightly since it was a precious scent in China, usually reserved for temples, royalty, and sacred rituals. The only way I even knew what it smelled like was because Yeye had taken me to a beautiful Buddhist temple up in Weston, Massachusetts, to observe the Hungry Ghost Festival. Why I was smelling it here and now was perplexing. Turning into the wind, I drew the sweet, balsamic, and earthy smell deep into my lungs. Either there was a Buddhist temple nearby—which was doubtful—or someone from the other side was trying to reach out to me. Not my mother. Her scent was lotus.

“Bàba,” I whispered to the dusky sky in hopes this rich smell was a sign my father was nearby. Either that, or it was another deity, an ancestor…Kee Huang, perhaps?

“What?” Phil asked softly. “You see the ghost maid? You have that far-off look on your face.”

“Sorry, I just…” The scent disappeared just as suddenly as it had arrived. A swell of disappointment filled me. “It was nothing. A smell on the wind.” I shook it off just as the ghost maid phased through the wall of room #3 with her little canister vacuum. She looked at me. I waved. She disapparated quickly, shocked that I could see her, I assumed. “We need to get more information about the camp and its past. Library or town hall records, but they’re both closed, I’m sure.”

“Guess we just eat and wait until tomorrow then. Arch, I swear if my father knew about those missing kids and still bought this camp, I’m going to totally disown him and change my name.” I glanced over at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dewy, his heart breaking just a bit more. So I turned to him and offered him a hug. His strong arms engulfed me, lifting me a few inches off the sidewalk as he squeezed.

“It’ll all work out, I promise,” I whispered to him. He buried his face in the crook of my neck as we hugged it out. I prayed those weren’t just hollow words…

Chapter Six

Nothing lit up my boyfriend like cheesy stromboli.

Aside from loving me. And sports. Stromboli was definitely a strong third for his affections. The way he was chowing down on his thick chunk of meaty, cheesy dough goodness, I wondered if sports might be knocked down to third at the moment. I never worried about loving me being anything but number one. Phil was all about my dick in his ass, or in his mouth, or his dick in my mouth…

We’d not tried me catching—to stay with the baseball season theme—but maybe someday soon. Or not. Either way, as long as I had Phil in my life, whatever we did sexually was fine.

“This might be the fourth best stromboli I’ve ever had,” he mumbled around a mouthful as we sat outside the gas station, paper plates and foil lying on our laps. Vince Neil and the boys were lamenting about being too fast for love. Or it should be a lament, otherwise, your partner was missing out. “I had some in New York that was the best. Then our place at home. Oh, and the third was a small stand in Washington. They used fresh ’shrooms and crisp green peppers. The sauce was spicy but not too spicy.”

“Sounds really good,” I replied, happy to see him chattering as he normally did.

“It was. That’s the only thing I miss about D.C. other than the museums. They rocked. I had a nanny who took me to one museum every week. Cultural refinement she parroted from my father, but I didn’t care if it was one of my father’s rules because it was such fun.”

I plucked a slice of pepperoni from my stromboli and popped it into my mouth. “She was nice. My folks weren’t home much. Mom spent the most time with me, but it was spotty. She liked being the wife of a politician. Then she got on a bunch of committees, all about family values, but while she was out stomping around the country preaching about the virtues of women in the home, she was leaving her kid to be raised by nannies.” He lowered his can of soda and made a face. “I’m more than a little bitter. That’s not good for the soul, Yeye would tell me, huh?”

He looked my way. “Probably not, but you’ve got a lot to be bitter about. Losing parents is tough, even if it’s just to careers and hobbies. The people who are supposed to be there for you aren’t, and it’s lonely. I can relate.”

“But your folks died. From what Yeye says, they were doting parents.” He passed his Coke to me. I took a swig and handed it back.

“I think so, yeah, he and the family tell me that, but they still weren’t there. That’s hard no matter the circumstances.”

We both sighed in unison. I moved my foot slightly, my sneaker rattling two bottles of whiskey baijiu we’d borrowed from Yeye. Since neither of us was twenty-one yet, we had to resort to, well, stealing my grandfather’s beloved drink made from fermented sorghum. It had a definite kick coming in at sixty percent alcohol. He sipped it on occasion for celebrations or when his old bones ached in the winter. We’d explain its loss to him later.

“Man, this is depressing. Do you want to take a drive out to check the campgrounds? Just see where they are and get a vibe?” Phil asked.

I took another bite and chewed slowly so I could think it over. It was nearly dark. The faintest blush of pink could be seen in the west. We were tired. We were not in the best frame of mind due to Kestrel family chaos. We probably should just make the call to do it tomorrow.

“Yeah, okay.”

Let it never be said that guys in their early 20s made intelligent decisions. Just watch Jackass movies if you doubt my words. They’ve held up well. At least Phil and I found them pretty hilarious. With our bellies full of stromboli and fizzy soda, we pulled up a map on my phone, waited for the image to buffer—infrastructure in rural America is a real need for politicians—and then left the gas station in the rearview.

“Where does your father stand on infrastructure?” I asked only because the lone signal bar was blinking like a cheap neon sign in a taproom window. “Four miles down this road then a left turn on a smaller road whose name might be Mud Puddle or Muck Muddle or something with mud in the name…and it’s gone.”

“Do we have to talk about him?” Phil turned on the high beams to illuminate the road better. Country roads meant critters leaping out in front of you, so if you could see them looking confused on the side of the road, you had a better chance of not turning a deer into a hood ornament.

“No, no, we don’t. Sorry. I was just thinking about the shitty internet out here in the boonies and mentally berating politicians for not spending money where it’s needed,” I explained and took a swig of soda. A big one. I then belched.

“Nice one,” Phil said, looking proud of my burp. As I said, young guys find pleasure in crude stuff. Even those who have gifts from their ancestors.

“Thanks.”

“Cool.” He fell silent as we rolled along a two-lane road. No streetlights, just the glow of interior lamps coming on in the sparse houses dotting the road. “If I had to guess, he would say he’s behind it to get elected, then would go back on the campaign pledge and send the money for cell towers to the Department of Defense.”

“Oh. Okay. That kind of tracks.” I let it drop. I did not want to poke him about his family. He’d talk. Phil was a talkative guy. “Oh, I think this is our turn.” The headlights caught a faded street sign reading Muck Muddle Road. Below it, fallen into ruin, the once bright orange arrow listing to the side, was a sign announcing Camp Minnow Mingle just 2 miles ahead. “Guess that cements it then.”