Page 22 of The Otherworld

“Lucius,” I say, command in my voice, “find.”

He romps out the open door and down the steps. I fly after him, into the misty gray morning. Lucius always gets excited for the first part of a “find.” Eager to prove himself, he voraciously sniffs the world as if his next meal depends on it… until he picks up the scent of some delicious distraction, and I have to call him back for another command.

I’ve decided the best course of action would be to follow the coastline. If Adam endured a roughhousing from the ocean, he could be stranded on the beach or perhaps the rocks. I’ve mentally prepared myself for the possibility that he might be in bad shape—recalling the first aid guides Papa made me commit to memory when I was old enough to “stomach such things.” We both needed to learn basic medical procedures in case the need ever arose. Today I am glad of my knowledge.

Steeling myself with as much confidence as I can muster, I set off with Lucius by my side. We skip down the big rocks to the hard gray sands below, whitewater crashing on one side and skinny pines reaching up on the other. The shoreline stretches out ahead of us, so tranquil and familiar—yet today it looks more lonely and desolate.

I’ve spent countless mornings wandering these beaches with Lucius, my feet sticky with saltwater, my pockets stuffed with shells. I’m used to these long, lonesome walks on the strand, yet somehow it feels so different knowing that Papa is not back at the lighthouse.

I shake my head to dispel the shadow of fear creeping up on me.

I want this. I want to prove to Papa that I can handle a challenge; I can cope with the dark parts of life. I am not like a delicate branch of coral; I am like an orca. The top predator of the ocean.

Pulling the hood of my cloak up over my head, I whistle to Lucius, who has forgotten that we’re tracking a human, not a squirrel. He bounds back to me obediently, sand spraying.

“Lucius, find.”

We trek onward, Lucius sniffing furiously, me scanning the ground for any trace of human life.

For the first hour, we find nothing. I’ve long since lost sight of the lighthouse over my shoulder, which makes me wonder:

If I do find Adam out here, and he’s unconscious, how in the world will I get him to the warmth and safety of the lighthouse?

Lucius stops at that very same moment to look at me, as if also questioning my ability.

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” I mutter. “Let’s just find him first.”

That’s when I spot some unusual indentations in the sand up ahead. I quicken my pace, taking note of the tide lines. The markings begin where the wet sand ends, staggering between rocks and knobs of driftwood. Even up close, I can’t confirm they are footprints—and Lucius trotting past this evidence without a backward glance quashes my small flicker of hope. Still, he’s not really a tracker—and perhaps Adam’s shoes don’t smell anything like the inside of the backpack.

I examine the mysterious prints, following them to a weather-beaten log, where they abruptly end. I examine the log for any disturbance from a pair of boots, but there is nothing.

Lucius barks, light-years ahead of me.

“Coming, coming,” I huff, hopping off the log.

I reach into my pocket and take out the finely crafted compass I found in Adam’s backpack. The needle quivers as I walk, ever true to the north.

Everyone thinks he’s dead. Jack’s panicked voice echoes through my mind. The coast guard quit the search, and my parents are giving up. They think he’s dead, but he’s not, he’s not…

Poor Jack. I barely even know him, yet my heart aches when I remember the way his voice trembled through the phone last night, so desperate, so broken. So close to slipping off the edge of sanity.

He must love his brother very much.

* * *

The day passes slowly. Side by side, Lucius and I scout the entire coastline of the island—picking our way through fields of driftwood, climbing up rocky slopes, edging along the tree line to peer down at the tidewater smashing against the shore. My legs grow tired of hiking, and my eyes grow weary of surveying the landscape, but my heart never ceases to anxiously press against my ribs, thudding with equal parts hope and dread.

I still haven’t sorted out what I’ll do if he’s badly injured or unconscious. Or even worse, what if he’s dead? I couldn’t leave him wherever I found him—but I couldn’t drag his body back to the lighthouse, either. How would I manage?

How would I tell Jack?

The lighthouse is coming back into view now—rising from the northern tip of the island to shine courageously across the dark gray sea. The clouds at the horizon have split open to allow the sun her one and only appearance of the day, skipping orange flares across the tops of the waves before the ocean swallows her up.

Lucius pants beside me, his pink tongue unfurled and his eyes dewy with fatigue.

“You did good, boy,” I say, scratching his head. “We’ll both sleep well tonight, huh?”

As I climb the small grassy knoll up to the house, I wonder what Papa is fixing for dinner—but then I see the unlit windows and remember: Papa is gone.

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