Missing by Becky Citra Read Free Book Online Page A

but there are no closets or cabinets or anything.
    â€œIt’s going to be nice when it’s finished,” I say, remembering bits of Dad and Tully’s conversation. “They’re putting in pine siding and tile in the bathroom and brand-new appliances.”
    The sawdust makes Van sneeze, and we keep walking, all the way to cabin ten. This is where the road gets narrow and overgrown with grass until it disappears into the trees. It’s as far as I’ve been.
    â€œTully said something about another old cabin at the end,” I say. “It’s kind of abandoned.”
    â€œI’ve seen it from the lake,” says Van. “Let’s see if we can find it.”
    No one’s been past here in a car for years, I guess. Small bushes grow right in the middle of the road. In places the road seems to disappear altogether and we have to search in the grass for old tire ruts. We walk for a few minutes, brushing away mosquitoes, and then we spot the cabin, on the shore of a shallow marshy bay.
    It’s small, probably just one room. Like the other cabins, it’s built out of logs, but it looks much older. It sags into the weeds as if it is tired. Lime green moss covers the logs in patches. Ragged holes gape between the shingles on the roof, and two of the windows are missing their glass.
    The door is hanging by only one hinge. Van props it open and we go inside. The cabin is empty, except for a wooden table with a broken leg, and two chairs. There’s an old wood-burning cookstove in one corner, with an enormous spiderweb suspended between the rusty stovepipe and the wall. Dried leaves are scattered across the floorboards, and the few windows that still have glass are thick with dust.
    â€œA good project for your dad,” says Van with a grin. He goes back outside, but I hang around for a few minutes. I try to picture someone living here, sitting at that table, eating a meal cooked on the stove.
    Something catches my eye: marks gouged into the wood on the frame of the doorway. I trace them with my fingers. They look like letters but the wood has swollen around them and it’s hard to make out what they are. There are four marks. A letter S, I think, maybe a T . Someone’s name, scraped into the wood to prove they were here?
    I go outside. At first I can’t figure out what Van is doing. He’s thrown his runners on the ground and rolled up his jeans. He’s calf-deep in water. Then I realize he’s standing on the remains of a dock submerged in the lake. He tips the halfrotten boards back and forth, waving his arms for balance.
    â€œThere’s an old boat in the bushes over there,” he says. “It’s got some holes in it but I might be able to fix it up.”
    Bob has been for a swim and he gives a great shake, spraying my legs. I can hear Max somewhere close by, barking. I call him and a moment later he bursts out of the bushes, his tongue lolling.
    Van rocks the dock again, bracing with his knees, and I say, “I’d laugh if you fell in.”
    â€œNot a chance.” Van jumps to the shore. “The mosquitoes are horrible,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

    It’s dark when Van leaves. Dad’s worried that he won’t be able to see, but Van shows him the light on his boat. Besides, he says, he’s grown up on this lake. He knows where all the hazards are.
    Dad goes inside our cabin after Van leaves, but I stay on the dock. I hear the thrum of the boat’s motor long after Van disappears into the darkness. When I finally go inside to get ready for bed, I walk over to the dresser in my tiny bedroom and look at a photograph of me perched in front of Dad on his horse Skipper. I look about four years old. I’m wearing a helmet and Dad is wearing a cowboy hat that shades his face. His arms are wrapped right around me, and I’m grinning. I tell myself I can remember those rides with Dad, but I