Gone (Gone 1)

They ran into two kids, a fourth grader and his little sister, playing a halfhearted game of catch on their front lawn. “Our mom’s not home,” the older one said. “I’m supposed to go to my piano class this afternoon. But I don’t know how to go there.”

“And I have tap dance. We’re getting our costumes for the recital,” the younger one said. “I’m going to be a ladybug.”

“You know how to get to the plaza? You know, in town?” Sam said.

“I guess so.”

“You should go there.”

“I’m not supposed to leave the house,” the little one said.

“Our grandma lives in Laguna Beach,” the fourth grader said. “She could come get us. But we can’t get her on the phone. The phone doesn’t work.”

“I know. Maybe go wait down at the plaza, right?” When the kid just stared at him, Sam said, “Hey, don’t get too upset, okay? You have any cookies or ice cream in the house?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, there’s no one telling you not to eat a cookie, is there? Your folks will show up soon, I think. But in the meantime have a cookie, then come down to the plaza.”

“That’s your solution? Have a cookie?” Astrid asked.

“No, my solution is to run down to the beach and hide out until this is all over,” Sam said. “But a cookie never hurts.”

They kept moving, Sam and Quinn and Astrid. Sam’s home was east of downtown. He and his mom shared a small, squashed-looking one-story house with a tiny, fenced backyard and no real front yard, just a sidewalk. Sam’s mother didn’t make much money working as a night nurse up at Coates Academy. Sam’s dad was out of the picture, always had been. He was a mystery in Sam’s life. And last year his stepfather had left, too.

“This is it,” Sam said. “We don’t believe in showing off with a big house and all.”

“Well, you live near Town Beach,” Astrid said, pointing to the only advantage of this house or this neighborhood.

“Yeah. Two-minute walk. Less if I cut through the yard of the house where the biker gang lives.”

“Biker gang?” Astrid said.

“Not the whole gang, really, just Killer and his girlfriend Accomplice.” Astrid frowned, and Sam said, “Sorry. Bad joke. It’s not a great neighborhood.”

Now that he was here, Sam didn’t want to go in. His mother would not be there.

And there was something in his house maybe Quinn, and especially Astrid, shouldn’t see.

He led the way up the three sun-faded, gray-painted wooden steps that creaked when you stepped on them. The porch was narrow, and a couple of months ago someone had stolen the rocking chair his mom had put out there so she could sit and rock in the evening before she went to work. Now they just had to drag out kitchen chairs.

That was always the best time of day for them, the beginning of his mother’s workday, the end of Sam’s. Sam would be home from school, and his mom would be awake, having slept most of the day. She would have a cup of tea, and Sam would have a soda or maybe a juice. She would ask him how school had gone that day, and he wouldn’t really tell her very much, but it was nice to think about how he could tell her if he wanted to.

Sam opened the door. It was quiet inside, except for the refrigerator. The compressor on it was old and noisy. The last time they’d talked out on the porch, feet up on the railing, his mom had wondered whether they should get the compressor fixed, or whether it would be cheaper just to get a secondhand refrigerator. And how would they get it home without a truck.

“Mom?” Sam said to the emptiness of the family room.

There was no answer.

“Maybe she’s up the hill,” Quinn said. “Up the hill” was the townie phrase for Coates Academy, the private boarding school. The hill was more like a mountain.

“No,” Sam said. “She’s gone like all the others.”

The stove was on. A frying pan had burned black. There was nothing in the pan. Sam turned off the cooktop.

“This is going to be a problem all over town,” he said.

Astrid said, “Yeah, stoves left on, cars running. Somebody needs to go around and make sure things are off and the little kids are with someone. And there’s pills, and alcohol, and some people probably have guns.”