Farther down the road were skid marks. The car must be past
the bend. All that was left was a backpack with the contents dashed across the
asphalt. The sun had risen behind a layer of clouds, casting thin glow between
the banks of trees to either side.
The thick arm of Jenny’s watch gestured toward the 7. She
approached the scene slowly. Marc clung to my side. We took him with because we
didn’t know what else to do. Hours had been spent looking. Marc slept until
moments ago, when Jenny’s whispered pleas to pull over grew more intense.
The backpack looked unfamiliar and I could feel the heat of
hope still within me. I scanned Jenny’s features for any flicker of
recognition. Those books could be any books. All pens are functionally the same
pen. This mess could be anything. Doubt crept in. This morning my own clothes
felt strange. The road only five miles from our house felt strange. Even my
Jenny, with her new stone face, was the strangest person I had ever seen.
Jenny touched
