“Not sure.”

•   •   •

Carl took the stairs one at a time, resting for several seconds in between. In his peripheral vision he noticed his girls regarding him silently from the dining room table, where they were meant to be studying. He waved at them. Back to your schoolwork.

On the upstairs landing, he allowed himself to acknowledge why he’d used the past tense when speaking about Bear Van Laar. The truth was: he’d been thinking of Scotty. The two boys were becoming closer in his mind.

Carl

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975

Maryanne went back to search the next day, and the next. Each evening she reported on the day’s events: as word spread, there were more and more people in the field. A hundred the second day. Five hundred the third. The whole town of Shattuck had paused in its daily operations to contribute to the cause: every adult older than school age, and some children as well. For two whole days, the grocery store was closed while the Shattucks and their employees searched for Bear, meaning that anyone who’d run out of milk or bread or toilet paper had to drive half an hour to get some.

Vic Hewitt, said Maryanne, had been in charge of operations so far; each day he sent small groups farther and farther afield in every direction. Still, there was no sign of Bear.

What Vic shouted at the group each morning was formal and hopeful, meant as much for the ears of the parents as for the searchers themselves.

What Maryanne learned in whispers from the other wives was less so.

The hounds, they said, had lost the boy’s scent quickly on the first day. Ron Shattuck’s Jennie had been the one to sniff out the carving of the bear, halfway between the house and the trailhead; after that she had not pointed for the rest of the day.

The problem had been the downpour on the day of the boy’s disappearance. If not for the rain, they said—but no one would finish the sentence.

“Vic’s losing hope,” said Maryanne, the evening of the third day. “You can tell. His posture’s different.”

Carl nodded. It was difficult to imagine a boy of Bear’s age surviving in the wilderness much beyond this point. Even one with his know-how.

“Are people speculating?” Carl asked.

Maryanne hesitated for a moment before responding.

“They are,” she said, carefully. “There’s a lot of folks who think the boy just wandered off. Out of curiosity or anger, no one’s sure. No telling how far a boy his age and size could have gotten before realizing he was lost. After that,” she said, “well, if he were down with an injury, he might have succumbed to the cold overnight.”

Carl nodded. This was his theory too—the main one, anyway. He hated to say it, to even think it, but this sounded like the most probable theory. Except—

Maryanne continued. “But Carl,” she said, “people have another thought too.”

He knew what it was before she said it.

“The carving,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Not that.”

“Then what?” Carl said.

Maryanne hesitated. “There’s a rumor,” she said. “It’s that you were the last person to see Bear alive.”

Carl paused. Nodded.

“That’s true. I saw him just as I was leaving. He was sitting on the front steps of Self-Reliance. Tying his shoes.”

She looked at him, blinking. “Why on earth did you not tell me that?”

“I have to tell you something else,” said Carl.

Maryanne put her face in her hands.

“No, Maryanne,” said Carl. “Nothing like that. My God.”

He reached for one of her hands and took it.

“Bear was afraid of his grandfather,” he said.

“How do you know?”

He described the change in the boy’s expression when he heard his name called; he described what he had said. That’s my grandfather. I don’t like him much. He did not say outright what he was thinking, but Maryanne did.

Then she began to cry.

“What’s wrong, Maryanne?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Please.”

She swiped at her nose. “All right,” she said. “I’m crying because I think you’re probably right.”

Her shoulders were hunched and miserable. Her head was down.

“And because I think no one will believe you,” said Maryanne.

•   •   •

Neither of them could sleep. Maryanne tossed and turned. Carl lay still, looking up at the dark ceiling, feeling the ache of his heart as it thudded inside him. He had managed to find an appointment with a doctor at Glens Falls for Monday morning. Until then, his only job was to keep calm: an increasingly impossible task.

At some point they heard a knock at the front door. Maryanne sat up, listening; it came again louder. Carl didn’t know what time it was. Midnight or one, maybe.

“I should get that,” said Carl. But again, when he tried to sit up, he found his vision dimming at its edges.

“You stay here,” said Maryanne. She moved to the closet and retrieved from the top shelf a shotgun that had been her father’s. She loaded it. Headed for the door.

“Maryanne,” whispered Carl, feeling useless. “Whoever that is can come back in the morning.”

But she ignored him.

•   •   •

He listened hard. The front door opened. He heard the voices of men, low and murmuring. He propped himself up, straining to hear more.