The Calling (Darkness Rising 2)

"That's our names right there," I said, pointing at the list in the paper.

"Prove it."

"Our helicopter crashed in the ocean, lady," Sam said. She pulled sodden rectangles from her pocket and dropped them on the table. "That's my ID."

I opened the paper to an inner page where the piece continued. There were photos of two missing kids. Rafe and Nicole.

"How the hell did they get Rafe's picture?" Sam muttered.

"Those aren't us," I said.

"Convenient," the server muttered.

It wasn't convenient. It was intentional. Submit photos of the kids they knew weren't wandering around the forest.

There was a class picture at the bottom of the article. It was tiny and blurred, although my copy at home was perfect.

"We're in this one." I pointed to the class shot. "That's me, and that's Sam over there."

"I think that's Bryan," Sam said.

"Is it?" I squinted. "Maybe..."

It was impossible to tell, really. I wouldn't even be sure which one was me if I didn't recognize my tie-dyed shirt.

"Okay," I said. "Our pictures might not be recognizable, but come on. Why would we lie about it?"

"Same reason my own kids lie," the server said. "To get attention."

"Seriously?" Sam said. "We're going to hatch this elaborate scheme, and launch it in your crappy little--?"

I stepped on Sam's foot.

"We're dirty," I said. "We're exhausted. Look outside. We didn't come in a car. So how did we get here? Where did we come from?"

"Nanaimo, I'll bet." She said it the same way people in Nanaimo would say Vancouver, with a sneer that said nothing good came from the big city. "Maybe Victoria." She peered at us. "Probably Victoria. Only rich kids can afford to mess up nice clothes like that. Private school, I'll bet. You talk like you come from a private school."

"We do." I jabbed my finger at the paper. "Salmon Creek School. Privately owned by the St. Cloud Corporation. Our teacher's name is Mrs. Morris. She's the mother of Hayley, one of the girls they said died. There are thirteen kids in our class, which covers grades eleven and twelve. We're in eleven. Look, do you have a computer? I can show you Maya Delaney's Facebook page. Which has my photo on it. I'll have to use my password to access it because all my details are set to private. That should prove it's mine."

"You kids these days are too smart for your own good," the server said. "I'm sure you've got Facebook pages set up for this scheme."

"What scheme?" Sam said, her voice rising. "What possible motivation could we have to do this?"

"Attention." The server crossed her arms. "I bet you've got friends out there taping us. Make fun of the locals. Post the videos on YouTunes."

"YouTube," Sam muttered.

"See?" She shook her head. "Spoiled brats. You aren't even thinking about these poor kids and how their parents must be feeling."

"Yes." I met her gaze. "I am thinking about how my parents are feeling. They think they just lost their only child. I need them to know that I'm alive."

I glanced at the lone customer. He looked away quickly and focused on his lunch.

I turned back to the server. "If I can just use your phone--"

"Why? To call your friends to come and get you? Better get walking, girl. It's a long way to town."

She kicked us out after that. There was nothing we could do, nothing we could say. She knew the story--those kids had died in a crash on the other end of the island. DNA said it was the missing kids and everyone who watched CSI knew DNA never lied.