Chapter Text
The town of Boatem was so decidedly miniscule that it did not appear on a single state or country map – not one that Grian had ever encountered, anyways. Despite its scenic location on the edge of a quaint, shallow lake, it was wholly disregarded by all who came past this area of northwestern Michigan, as all travelers had their sights on more appealing destinations. Boatem was, by all accounts, a perfectly pleasant and accommodating place to stay, but it had nothing in the way of hotels or even motels, and the only rental properties were a couple dilapidated houses on the outskirts of town which had remained unoccupied for the past few decades, at least. In the brief instances Grian had wandered too close to them, he’d been left to scourge the smell of fish rot from every inch of his clothing.
There was, for all intents and purposes, a single intersection. Hallow Road came in from the western woods and formed a junction with the short stretch of pavement they called Main Street before dashing out the eastern edge. Main Street ran south until the tree line, forming a little neighborhood that ended in a cul-de-sac, and north until it split off into the long driveways for the lakefront houses. At the intersection, there was no light, only a stop sign for those traveling along Main Street; there was very little cross traffic, as the majority of cars taking Hallow Road were travelers who had become so incredibly lost that their GPS had instructed them to cut through town.
At the east end of town, across from the old antique shop, was the school in which Grian worked. He was the librarian, serving both the students and the town as a whole, and he took his job very seriously. All the books were always in perfect order, organized not by the outdated Dewey Decimal System, but rather by a strict regulation of his own making. Textbooks were not to intermingle with fiction, graphic novels and comics were separated clearly, and anything that may interest a certain history teacher were to be placed within the third shelf from the bottom, regardless of whatever the catalogue demanded.
Scar came by every once in a while, during his ten thirty lunch break or else whilst the kids were preoccupied by some semi-relevant movie. He’d come in through the open doors, rolling over the freshly vacuumed carpet, and spout a cheery hello to the librarian.
Grian, without fail, would glance up from the book his nose was buried in and give Scar a dramatic, exhausted sigh. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly petty, he’d accompany it with an exaggerated eye roll.
The two had been playing at this irritation for years now, encouraged by students who wanted to choose a side in their friendly spats. The previous spring, Scar had involved the kids in his next grand step in the somewhat one-sided prank war that had sprouted in their bickering. One afternoon, once Grian had headed home for the evening, Scar had enlisted the help of some of the older kids in moving the bookcases out of position, rearranging the library until it became unrecognizable. The following morning, Grian had frozen in the doorway in horror, distraught at the dismembering of his glorious organizational system. In truth, it wasn’t all that inconvenient – they hadn’t moved any of the books within the bookshelves, so restoring order was only a matter of manual labor – but he knew the students were eating up all of the theatrics, so he played up his reaction and swore revenge upon his colleague. It was a nice sense of amusement throughout the year, seeing how each prank one-upped the previous, but that was mostly the extent of his relationship with Scar. He was a good coworker: he showed up on time and brought his bubbly personality through even the murkiest winter days, but Grian got the impression that he wasn’t all that bright beyond a knack for memorizing history and Star Wars facts. Either way, it was nice to see him that morning when Grian was struggling to fight the Monday dreariness.
“Hello there!” Scar called, and Grian pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a full-body sigh.
“Hello, Scar,” he said. He was careful to place his voice somewhere with enough plausible deniability to be interpreted as either teasing, annoyed, or amiable, depending on which Scar preferred to hear. He set his book – a thick volume on eastern European architecture – on the desk in front of him and turned his full attention to Scar. “How are you?”
“I am absolutely splendid,” Scar replied. “Thank you for asking.” He grinned, reaching up to slide a book onto Grian’s desk.
Grian took it back to the return cart. “You do know there’s a return slot outside the door, right?” he said. His back was turned to Scar now, so he could not read the reaction on his coworker’s face, but he imagined it was something like a mischievous smirk.
“And miss out on seeing my favorite librarian? Never.”
Grian returned to his desk. His computer monitor had long since switched a screensaver, a swirl of pink and red that no doubt reflected brightly off the lenses of his glasses. Beside the keyboard, there was a half-empty cup of coffee that was only partly intended to be consumed; most of all, Grian enjoyed the scent of it wafting up warmly as he worked. The mug was vintage, a hand-painted floral design that someone had bought for him over a decade ago, never anticipating that he’d still drink from it every day.
“So,” Grian sighed, taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee and concealing his involuntary grimace at the temperature. “Are you actually looking to check something new out, or are you just here to offer your glowing personality?”
“Why not both?”
“What sort of book are you looking for?”
Something flashed over Scar’s beaming expression, the briefest hint of dejection, gone as quickly as it had come. “Fiction,” he said.
“That’s surprising.”
“It is,” Scar agreed. “It’s not for a lesson. I have a student who’s been rereading book one of Percy Jackson for three weeks now, and when I asked her if she’d read the rest of the series, she told me she missed the last library day and she was too nervous to go before class alone.” He gave Grian a pointed look at that last part, as if it was Grian’s fault that this child found such a task intimidating.
“Well, um, wait here,” Grian said, ignoring Scar’s look. He rose to his feet and strode across the room, heading directly to the place where he knew the middle grade fantasy laid. There were plenty of copies of the Percy Jackson books in his library, which had caused a stir with some of the more conservative parents a few years back – apparently, they were concerned that their poor little babies were going to grow up worshipping Zeus and Hades from their influence – but there hadn’t been a large enough outcry to force his hand. Grian snatched an old paperback of Sea of Monsters, then added Titan’s Curse just in case this kid finished the first one before Scar could make another trip on her behalf.
As he returned to the front desk once again, he found Scar reaching over the edge, grasping at something and paying Grian no attention.
“Ahem,” Grian said, and Scar jolted, yanking his hand back and blushing like a kid caught sneaking sweets.
“Wow, that was fast. Very speedy. Excellent service, truly. Giving you five stars. Five star librarian, defin—”
“Scar.” Grian tossed the books into Scar’s lap, scanning his desk to see what Scar had taken. Everything seemed in order, though multiple items had been slid an inch or so from their original positions.
“I didn’t take anything,” Scar said at once. He slid the Percy Jackson books into the bag hooked on the back of his wheelchair and began to retreat towards the exit.
“Then what were you doing?” Grian asked. He half a mind to cross and attempt to block Scar’s exit, but thought better of it.
“I—” Scar cut himself off, looking down at the floor, the carefully cleaned purple carpet. “I was looking at what book you were reading.”
“You were – what ?” Grian cut himself off in disbelief. Somewhere in his chest, a laugh began to rattle, but he smothered it before it could leap up his throat. “Unbelievable. If you wanted to know so bad, you could have asked.” He shook his head, allowing a faint smile to dance over his lips as he punched the books’ codes into the computer, moving his mouse to select Scar’s account. “Wait,” he said.
In the doorway, Scar hesitated. “Yes?”
“What’s the name of the student?”
“Oh,” Scar said. “It’s Mary. You know her, right?”
Grian hummed in acknowledgement. That was one benefit of a town this small. Everyone knew everyone and only one kid in twelve grades of students was named Mary. There were, however, oddly enough, two students who shared the name Persephone. One had been born in Boatem, the other moved there something like three years ago and quickly discovered she would have to go by Persephone T. for clarity.
“You’re good now,” Grian said when he saw Scar was still waiting in the doorway.
“One last thing,” Scar said. “You haven’t heard from Mumbo, have you? Cleo said he’s out today without notice. She had to fill in for a lesson on trigonometry without notice, and it went about as well as you’d expect.”
Though Scar’s tone did not divert from its usual joviality, Grian couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut as he shook his head. No, he hadn’t heard from Mumbo. He hadn’t had any communication with him since the previous Friday, when Mumbo had driven Grian home after work per usual, and they parted cordially at the end of Grian’s driveway.
As Scar disappeared down the hallway back to his classroom, Grian pulled his phone from his back pocket and dialed the first contact on his favorites.
Anyone who had lived in Boatem for more than a couple years understood the way that this town swallowed its inhabitants. It had become something of a joke among a certain group of citizens, those who were young enough to still consider leaving and old enough to have the means, and yet all stayed. Grian had moved to Boatem when he was twenty two, fresh out of university and seeking that romanticized American small town life. He wasn’t originally supposed to settle in Boatem; he’d scouted out some larger towns closer to Lake Michigan, but some poor planning had forced him to divert to Boatem for a fuel refill, and he’d fallen in love with the town’s quaint atmosphere. Luckily for him, there was a house on sale for a reasonable price, and he’d signed the contract before he fully knew what had come over him.
The circumstances of his moving to Boatem may have been the perfect set up to a cheesy horror film, but his experience could not have been more different. He met Mumbo on a Friday night at the only bar in town and within a week, they were best friends. Well, seeing that Grian had no other friends to speak of, this wasn’t a terribly impressive achievement, but it wasn’t at all a one-sided affair. In the following years, Grian spent more time playing video games on Mumbo’s sofa than sleeping. His university degree made him almost over qualified for the librarian position, so when the previous occupant announced her retirement to Florida, he wasted no time in securing his spot as her replacement.
There was no reason to leave. There never was. And yet, undeniably, Grian was among the group that felt it. Even if all his dreams could be answered down in Indiana, he was not going to uproot himself from Boatem. It was his home, right down to the algae-choked lake and the broken swing in the little park at the south end of Main Street. And, though he’d never admit such a thing, this feeling of home that he associated with Boatem was intrinsically and imperatively linked to Mumbo.
His phone rang until it hit voicemail. Jarringly, Mumbo’s tinny prerecorded greeting burst from the speakers, prompting him to leave a message. Knowing Mumbo would be even less likely to listen to a voicemail than answer his phone, Grian shot him a text instead.
Scar says you’re out sick. Are you ok?
For some naïve reason, he stood there unmoving for a solid two minutes, waiting for Mumbo’s response. Of course, it didn’t come. If he wasn’t well enough to even call out sick from work, he was probably in no state to be checking his phone. After the school day, Grian would stop by his flat and ensure he didn’t need anything – medicine or food or such – and then his anxieties would be squandered. He only needed to last until three fifteen.
Unfortunately, now that the lunch period was over, there was very little chance the library would see any visitors, and Grian’s mind was too alive with worry to resume focus on his architecture reading. Instead, he busied himself scurrying about the corridors between shelves, replacing books from the returns cart into their correct positions. To give himself more work, he didn’t bother rolling the cart about the room, instead carrying a stack of three or four books that he knew belonged in vastly different sections, forcing himself to make a full lap of the library before returning to fetch the next few books. It kept his body busy enough to block out the more incessant thoughts, and before he knew it, the building was ringing with the final bell.
Now, pinching his sweater from his sweaty skin, Grian collected his belongings and, on muscle memory, trekked across the building to Mumbo’s classroom. He was halfway through the doorway before he realized his mistake, backtracking just as Cleo called out his name.
Hesitantly, he pushed the door open, leaning against it as Cleo snatched her lanyard off of Mumbo’s desk and headed towards him. “Didn’t Scar tell you?” she asked, weaving between the evenly spaced desks and snatching forgotten gum wrappers and pencils on the way.
“Yes,” Grian said. “I don’t know why….”
“Routine,” Cleo answered with a shrug, slipping past Grian and out into the hall. “Turn the lights off, will you?”
Wordlessly, Grian followed the principal’s command, then pulled the door to Mumbo’s classroom firmly shut behind him. Taped onto the pale wooden surface was a laminated image of polygons, each labelled with various specificities, with a right triangle large in the center, demonstrating Pythagorean’s Theorem and the basic trig functions. Frankly, anything beyond basic algebra was nonsense to Grian, but the way Mumbo would talk about it, these letters and numbers were a magical solution to the secrets of the universe.
“So,” he said as they headed towards the front door of the school building. “I heard you had to teach trigonometry.”
Cleo let out a loud, cracking laugh. “That’s what Scar told you, huh? It’s really not as bad as everyone makes it out to be.”
“Sine and cosine, right?”
“And tangent!” a new voice called from the entryway ahead of them, and Scar beamed at them.
Grian barely withheld a snort of laughter. “Yes, Scar, you’d know all about tangents,” he teased.
With a wink, Scar returned him a mock salute before leading the way out of the school building and onto the black asphalt of the car park. As Scar and Cleo started towards their cars, Grian spared a glance back at the building behind him. It was, according to Scar, the second oldest structure within Boatem – the oldest being a half crumpled cobblestone well located in the stretch of woods between the gas station and Grian’s backyard – though over the decades, it had undergone several renovations. The original brass bell had been removed and transported to the town hall for preservation, replaced now by a sturdier bronze replica which had chimed exactly four times in all the years Grian had lived here. A few decades ago, there had been a new wing added to the building, branching off in a similar brick-walled style to the right, though sporting a more modern flat-roofed design. Once, after a football game in the little sports fields out behind the school, Grian had busted a couple of teenage students for sneaking up onto that roof. Being an understanding adult, and definitely not seeking the ‘cool’ label from his students, he let them go on a warning, but he now checked every so often to ensure that the access door was still securely locked.
“Grian?”
Grian blinked, jolted back into the present, and found Scar waiting before him. “Do you need a ride?” he asked.
Normally, Grian walked to work in the mornings and caught a ride with Mumbo on the way back, though in the warmer months he preferred to walk both ways, as his house was close enough to make a pleasant pace. Mumbo was gone so scarcely that he didn’t really have a plan for his absence. “I, uh—”
“It’s no big deal,” Scar assured him. “I promise my car’s not that messy.”
“It’s not that,” Grian said. “It’s just, I was going to go to Mumbo’s apartment. Make sure he doesn’t need anything.”
“Excellent idea!” Scar exclaimed. “Mind if I join you?”
Grian did mind, actually. He had enjoyed Scar’s visit during the lunch hour, but now that his mind was buzzing with only partially unfounded anxiety, he wanted nothing more than to be alone. Unfortunately, Scar was a very difficult man to say no to, especially when he had no justification for the rejection.
“All right,” he sighed. “Lead the way.”
Scar’s car, according to the grand introduction he gave as he clambered inside, was a hand-controlled 2003 Toyota Tacoma that he’d been gifted brand new on his sixteenth birthday.
“That makes me feel old,” Grian commented, running a thumb over the chipped red paint on the door handle.
“She holds up well, though,” Scar replied, which wasn’t a response to what Grian had said.
As Scar maneuvered out of the car park and onto Hallow Road, Grian checked his phone again. Mumbo still hadn’t answered his texts – he’d sent three now over the course of the day, showing remarkable restraint on his part – and the stress was causing his hands to cramp up. Though it was late into October now, beneath his sweater his undershirt was soaked in sweat.
Grian knew that this was an overreaction. He knew that Mumbo was perfectly fine. He was probably asleep. That was the best course of action when ill: sleep it off, let the fever run itself out. His phone was off and he was soundly asleep.
They arrived at the intersection, and Scar took the turn slowly. Here was the little local diner, quiet now in the lull between the lunch and dinner rush. On occasion, he and Mumbo would stop here after the school day ended, particularly some years ago when they were young enough that ‘healthy diet’ could be an oxymoron.
Round the turn, they headed north on Main Street towards the lake. Boatem Lake, as the residents of the town had so eloquently named it, was no grand marvel. Longwise, it couldn’t have been more than seven hundred feet across; on the short side, half that. All things considered, it would be more accurately described as a marshy pond than a lake. Most of the surface was coated in a thick algae, meaning the couple rowboats owned by the residents of the lakefront houses were rarely ever used. Often, the other side, though closer than the journey back to the intersection, would be invisible due to the heavy fog that seeped in from the woods surrounding the entire town. In some ways, it was a blessing, as Grian could pretend that the lake stretched on as wide as Lake Michigan, a great expanse of water secret from all but those in Boatem.
Now about halfway from the intersection to Boatem’s singular block of flats, Grian registered that they were passing in front of the old Protestant church. Because it was the only one here, the pastor attempted to stay nondenominational, but Grian had never found the idea of attending very appealing. Blame it on some less than stellar experiences with Catholicism in his childhood.
Still, sometimes on Sundays, he would be passing by for one reason or another and couldn’t help but pause to listen to the muted music of the hymns.
“Do you go?” Grian found himself asking, not really thinking about why he was saying anything at all. “On Sundays,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely to the church building.
“Sometimes,” Scar replied, not taking his eyes from the road ahead of him. “Christmas. Easter. You know.”
“Yeah.” He knew. He also knew that he had definitely discussed this with Scar before, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they could talk about beyond library books and Scar’s one sided rants on Star Wars.
Luckily, he needn’t search for conversation topics, as they had arrived at the little car park for the apartment building. Mumbo lived on the third floor, halfway up the building and halfway down the hall. Grian followed the route to the elevators with muscle memory, barely taking in the faded carpet or the musky smell. The only thing occupying his mind anymore was the image of his friend, pale and motionless in his head, hand on his phone and eyes drawn permanently shut.
Which was ridiculous, of course. He doesn’t show up for work one time and Grian was immediately assuming the very worst. In his defense, this was a very un-Mumbo-like activity. In all the years Grian had known him, nothing like this had ever happened before. Mumbo was punctual and reliable and always called in when he’d be absent, which was rare as it was. This was part of the reason the two got along so well; in a town that moved slowly and imprecisely, they stuck out like needles in a down pillow.
While the two waited for the lift, Grian tuned in to Scar’s constant stream of rambling, this time about the history test he’d assigned the previous Friday.
“I was really trying to make this one tricky,” he was saying. “Adding short answers about the economic implications of the red scare, thinking I would curve the scores and teach them a nice lesson on accepting imperfection. Which, you know, you could really benefit from, in my humble opinion, but—”
The lift bell dinged, indicating its arrival, and Grian stepped past Scar into the carriage before he could continue down that train of thought. The back wall of the lift was plastered in various flyers and posters, advertising local businesses – dog walkers, babysitters, gardeners – or else begging for attendance at one of the events held in the town hall. Some, Grian had gone to, such as a brief knitting lesson or a series of movie nights showing some old classics, but some, he couldn’t imagine any sane person ever considering. A meeting to discuss the road quality. A seasonal dance, which was only held because the school budget couldn’t justify a prom or homecoming. A godforsaken PTA meeting.
That last one, at least, Grian could imagine considering if he actually had any children, but the time for that had probably long since passed him by. Romance had never been at the forefront of his mind, and it had grown even less feasible since moving to Boatem.
“Anyways, the kids did incredible. Incredible! Now what will the lesson be?”
“That hard work pays off?” Grian suggested, lacing his tone with a hint of sarcasm.
Scar shook his head. “No, that’s not right….”
Grian’s chest shook with an involuntary laugh, but he swallowed it before it could erupt out of his throat. Scar did not deserve the satisfaction that would give him. Instead, he pinched his eyes shut in mock irritation until the bell chimed once again and they exited out into Mumbo’s hall.
For what felt like the thousandth time that day, Grian checked his phone. No new calls or texts from Mumbo. His messages were still labelled as ‘delivered’. The last thing read before that was Friday morning, asking when the next fire drill was.
Outside Mumbo’s door, Grian found himself immobile. He didn’t have a spare key. A few months back, Mumbo had changed the locks, and he hadn’t offered Grian a replacement. And Grian hadn’t asked. They weren’t as close as they once were. He didn’t spend his weekends on Mumbo’s sofa anymore. There was no need.
If he knocked and Mumbo didn’t respond, there was nothing more he could do. This was it.
“Uh, Grian?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to knock, or should I?”
“I – right.” He shook himself mentally and lifted a hand to the dark wooden panels of the door. Then, without another moment’s hesitation, he brought his knuckles against it three times in quick succession. A polite yet firm sound.
The fluorescent lights that hung above them buzzed incessantly. Their bright white hues cast ghastly shadows of the two of them onto the wall outside Mumbo’s apartment. Bitterly, Grian considered just how more comfortable and homely this place would feel if only those lights were warmer. Now, they shone down with a blueish, piercing cold, sending a shiver through his body despite the heavy maroon sweater.
Two and a half minutes passed without a response before Grian knocked again, louder this time, expelling the bottled-up energy of his worries into his knuckles striking the old, unpolished wood.
Almost immediately, the door drifted open, and Grian let out a breath of relief before the wind was abruptly whisked from his sails once again, taken just a blink after it had been given.
There was no Mumbo standing in the doorway. Not well, not sickly, not looking half dead. There was no Mumbo. There was no one at all.
Surely Grian hadn’t actually knocked hard enough to break through the lock. His eyes scanned the end of the door that now swung lazily ajar, and sure enough, the deadbolt was disengaged, the normal latch seemed unaffected. So, what? Mumbo had left his apartment and forgotten to even check that the door was properly latched? It seemed so vastly out of character, but maybe. Maybe if he was sick and feverish enough.
“Mumbo?” Grian called, though he already knew he’d receive no answer. He took a step into Mumbo’s apartment, hand reaching blindly for the light switch.
Scar reached it first, bathing the apartment in a pale golden hue, and Grian’s fingers brushed over the rough skin on the back of his hand before jolting away, as if burned. He tucked his hands up to his chest and took another step into the empty apartment.
Mumbo had always maintained a sort of organized chaos to his living space, the same as his classroom at the school. So long as he knew where everything could be found, there was no use in conforming to a traditional ‘neat’ approach. The ‘chaos’ side of these had mellowed out in recent years, especially in regards to his classroom, but with one glance at the state of his apartment, no one would come to that conclusion.
“Not the tidiest, is he?” Scar’s voice came nervously from behind Grian, verging on the edge of an awkward joke.
It would have been better, Grian supposed, if Mumbo’s apartment appeared to have been ransacked. Then, at least, it would have been clear what culprit they were searching for. Instead, it gave the distinct impression that all uncleanliness was on the part of Mumbo himself. There was a box of takeout left half-eaten at the table, groceries still in plastic bags, and a collection of notebooks and loose papers spread over the unmade bed. The window was cracked open, lessening the odor of the unrefrigerated food and filling the room with a frigid chill.
This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. Grian’s hands rubbed down the wool of his sweater, desperately seeking a sensation to root himself in. His mind was running too quickly now, leaping to all sorts of conclusions on what might have happened to leave Mumbo’s apartment unlocked and unlatched and looking like this . Was he kidnapped? Had someone stalked him back from a grocery trip and surprised him at his door? That would mean that they then proceeded to carry his groceries into his apartment and… eat half of his takeout order. That didn’t make sense, but none of this made sense, not at all.
Maybe he was abducted by aliens. Yes, that was a perfectly reasonable explanation supplied by Grian’s perfectly reasonable brain.
His undershirt was all at once too stiff and tight, clinging to his skin like a wetsuit. It was crushing his ribs, cutting off his ability to breathe.
“Grian?”
“Don’t—” His voice was cut off by a sudden wheeze. It was the air of this place, so thick with dust and mold that it was suffocating. He brought a fist to his chest to dislodge the malfunction and staggered back, nearly pushing Scar out of the way in his effort to escape Mumbo’s apartment. “I’m – I need air,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry.” Without another word, he was storming down the length of the hallway, bypassing the elevator to tear his way into the stairwell.
Half a flight down, his legs nearly gave out under him, and he slumped against the wall of the landing to steady himself. The world, already narrow as it was, tumbled inward, shrinking to contain nothing more than this stairwell. His arms crossed over his body, holding tightly as the panic stewed.
All things considered, this was a vast overreaction. Mumbo had been gone for, what, twelve hours maybe? At least. Possibly longer.
And of course, it didn’t matter that this was terribly uncharacteristic of Mumbo, that no precedent had ever been set for this, because Mumbo was a grown man capable of making his own rash, idiotic decisions, and he was certainly allowed to do these things without Grian’s involvement or knowledge.
The air within this stairwell was caked in a dryness that tasted of dust. It coated Grian’s tongue and formed a film within his lungs, overtaking his organs like the algae that choked the dark lake water, making it rather difficult to breathe.
He could breathe, though. He knew the mechanics of it. It was only a matter of reminding his body what functionality was required of it.
And so he did. Despite the mouthfuls of dust he was swallowing, Grian managed to return himself to a method of taking in an adequate amount of oxygen. Within a few moments, he was normal again, behaving perfectly reasonably for someone of his age as he calmly descended the rest of the stairs. All in all, the episode could not have lasted more than a couple minutes. It was nothing to dwell on.
Gradually, on the way to the ground floor of the apartment building, the sense of normality grew familiar to him. He found it in the rhythm of his feet upon the thinly carpeted steps, in the steady cadence of his heartbeat in his chest, in some notion that the mess of a few minutes ago had actually been beneficial to him, as he doubted Scar would be waiting for him down in the hallway, given his rather rude dismissal, which would give Grian the solitude he so desperately needed. That was, he needed solitude if he was going to get any productive thinking done, and if he was even remotely close to right in his concerns about Mumbo, productive thinking had to be his top priority.
Fortunately, Grian’s prediction was correct: the ground floor hallway of the apartment building was completely deserted. Smothering any regret over his abandoning Scar, Grian set off back down Main Street, towards the intersection. By now, the sun was sinking low, drawing elongated shadows from every tree and lamppost, pouring orange tones over the old cracked pavement. His feet were beginning to ache, begging for the usual post-work crash upon his sofa, ready to put Monday far behind them.
Boatem was a quiet town. There was very little day life to speak of, and even less night life. Anyone who didn’t fancy rotting in their homes could probably be found at the old bar, the diner, or – God forbid – Boatem’s one franchised location, a shameful grease pit of a McDonald’s. Even now, no later than five or so, most families were returning home from work, putting dinner in the oven and saying farewell to the world outside the walls. It was busier in the summer, yes, when the kids were out of school and the days lasted long enough to fully utilize, but Grian appreciated this just fine. There was no one out to bother him as he conducted his own sweep of the town, dipping in and out of the usual haunts.
There weren’t many – there wasn’t much to do in the town, anyways, and even less if you actually wanted to enjoy yourself – but at each location, Grian was stopped and forced to act out the motions of a polite conversation. In the diner, he defended his visit by buying a slice of scrambled egg toast, something he figured he could finish in the time it took to greet everyone respectfully. Unfortunately, he underestimated just how intensely this stress had sapped his appetite and found himself struggling to conceal just how difficult his food was to get down. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally offend the poor waitress due to his own defection.
The rest of his search proved less upsetting in that regard, but more so in that he found no trace of Mumbo. Not that he was expecting to – who skipped work unannounced and left their apartment unlocked and barely latched just to hang out around town? – but some silly, childish part of himself still held hope that he’d stumble across a very ill and disoriented Mumbo in some corner of the hardware store. The longer he went on, the more disconcerted Grian began to feel. It was a rather inexplicably unpleasant feeling, the disparity between all those casual conversations and the concrete knowledge that something was terribly, imperatively wrong.
It all culminated in his second pass through the corner store, fueled by some naïve idea that he’d simply missed Mumbo, or even just a clue to his whereabouts, anything – when he rounded a bend at the end of the dairy aisle and collided directly into Gem, sending everything she was carrying to the floor with a clatter.
“Sorry!” Grian exclaimed at once. “Sorry, I –”
“No, no, it’s my fault,” Gem said hurriedly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She knelt down, restacking the tin boxes she’d been carrying. “Fishing bait,” she explained without looking up. “I’m not just buying worms for fun.”
“No, of course….” Grian found himself trailing off, as if the words were merely spooling out of him on a fading line of sense. He blinked, trying to rid the clinging feeling of disconnection.
“Are you okay?” Gem asked suddenly. She was standing upright now, clinging her boxes of worms to her chest and regarding him with curiosity. “Oh no, I didn’t give you a concussion, did I? I don’t think we knocked heads, but—”
“No, I’m.” Grian stopped without warning, throat closing. “Quite fine. All good.” He swallowed hard, painfully. “Um. You haven’t seen Mumbo today, have you?”
Frowning, Gem shook her head. “Afraid not. Was he gone from work?”
“Without giving notice. And then Scar and I went down to his apartment to check on him, and it was unlocked and empty.” He stated the words plainly, outlining the situation with remarkable calmness, and he looked down before he could see Gem’s expression change.
“Grian—”
“And I—” He was started now; he would keep going until it was all out, it seemed. “I’ve called him probably thirty times by now, texted every half hour, checked every building he could feasibly be hiding in—”
“Okay,” Gem said. “Okay. You’ve done everything perfectly. Now you’re going to come with me while I buy this bait, and we’re both going to sit on my dock and do some fishing. You’re going to tell me about all the books the kids are reading, and we’re going to wait until tomorrow before we start worrying. If he’s able, he’ll text you by then. If not, we’ll go down to the police station.”
It was something in the straightforward way she stated it, as if this was nothing more than a small blip in the routine, nothing to get all fussed about. Somehow, in a moment, the world returned to normal. The fridges of the dairy aisle buzzed with their usual nonchalance, the tiles beneath them glistened between a healthy coating of scuff marks, and the tension loosened from Grian’s chest.
“Does that sound okay?” Gem asked, readjusting the worm boxes in her arms.
“That sounds incredible, actually,” Grian sighed. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Even considering that it was well into autumn, the sunset still felt eerily impatient. By the time he and Gem were exiting the corner store, worm boxes tucked neatly into a paper bag, Grian could barely distinguish the colors of the building fronts around him. The air was cooler, tousling through the fabric of their clothes with sporadic bouts of dry wind. Along the empty street, wrought iron lampposts had illuminated their bulbs on schedule, though nearly half of them were dead, the rest dimming. At some point, the city budget must have cut them, deemed them irrelevant. Barely anyone went out after sunset anyways.
“I was talking to Cleo earlier,” Gem was saying. “I thought it’d be nice for the kiddos to take a field trip to the lake sometime. Impulse could make it a biology lesson, and I could help them with some catch and release.”
Grian forced himself to push back the thoughts of Mumbo to focus on the conversation Gem was trying valiantly to maintain. “That sounds like a great idea,” he said. “Someone could do newspaper boats with the little ones. Um… Pearl, maybe?”
“Pearl,” Gem echoed, shifting her bag of bait boxes to the other hip. “She’s the English teacher, right?”
Grian nodded. They were about halfway down Main Street now; he could see the row of lakeside houses at the end, partially obscured by the ever-present fog.
Gem hummed in acknowledgement. “I don’t think I’ve ever spoken with her,” she said. “She’s not exactly an extrovert, is she?”
Grian had to stop himself from laughing aloud. The image of Pearl that came to mind was even more fitting of the stereotypical librarian than he was; she dressed herself in soft, draping fabrics, no color brighter than an ocean blue, with her long brown hair tucked dutifully behind both ears and a pair of reading glasses strung from her neck by a silver chain. Logically, he knew that she must speak loudly enough to tame a classroom, but any time he spoke to her, it was as if she was constantly nervous of breaking a silence. In comparison to Scar, who made his interests plainly known to all who spoke to him, Pearl was a closed book. Grian wasn’t sure he could name one thing she liked besides books and children, and those were only educated guesses.
“No,” he told Gem. “Not particularly.”
“Is she fond of worms?” Gem asked, adjusting the bag in her arms once again. “I wouldn’t want to bring her if she’s squeamish.”
“I have no idea,” Grian said with an exhale that might have been interpreted as a laugh. It seemed only Gem could disarm him so easily. “I could leave one in her classroom, see what she thinks?”
At this, Gem cackled loudly. “Vile,” she exclaimed. “Unthinkably cruel.”
“Says the woman with the worm boxes.”
Gem merely shrugged, looking fondly at the tins of bait. In the warm yellow light of the sporadic streetlights, her ginger hair glowed like curls of flame, encircling her face and pouring onto her shoulders. Despite – or perhaps because of – her bright, bubbly mannerisms, there was something about Gem that was ever so slightly unnerving. Grian was pretty certain it had to do with the unshakable odor of fish that followed her, accompanied with the subtle knowledge that this lady spent more of her time on the dock dangling worms into the lake than socializing with her fellow humans. She had this way of acting like a perfectly normal small-town girl who would chat about the television show everyone was raving on about and then go on to describe exactly how the salmon you’ll eat for dinner was gutted.
When they arrived at Gem’s house, which was the middle-left of the five quaint houses at the end of Main Street, Gem led them straight through around the side to the backyard. The house itself was more or less the same as the others in Boatem: plain grey siding, a tasteful dash of cobblestone, and a roof that looked about a year away from collapse. It was two stories, but with a very small footprint, such that Grian couldn’t imagine there was room for more than one bedroom inside. Along the side yard were flowerboxes that were now mostly dead, being that it was October, and the ditch between her house and the neighbor’s was a sludge of cakey mud. Round the back, the yard was even less maintained, with only patches of grass amidst the dirt and gravel beach. There was a back door that led out to a small patio with a covered grill and a side table containing the grill equipment. Grian followed Gem over the squelching ground and onto the old dock that extended over the water.
“Fun fact,” Gem said, “this dock is about twenty years older than the house.”
“Delightful,” Grian muttered as the floor groaned beneath him. Tied to a post of the dock was a little wooden rowboat that Grian couldn’t imagine anyone feeling safe taking out beyond the shallows. Then again, he probably wasn’t the best metric for bravery. If the big fish were further out there, of course Gem would risk it.
At the end of the dock were hooks holding three fishing rods. Gem took one and gestured for Grian to do the same before taking a tired seat on the edge of the dock. As Gem busied herself opening one of the boxes of bait she’d purchased, Grian swung his legs idly over the water, gazing out at the fog. Now that the sun was properly setting, the surface of the water was nearly black, consuming the gentle purple light that reached it. The glassy surface was only interrupted on occasion by a spur of ripples, indicating a fish rising up to prey on the water striders. It was quiet here, by the water, even quieter than anywhere else in Boatem. If Grian held his breath, he could have sworn he could hear the lake itself humming. Here, there was nothing but the fish and the insects.
“You’ve fished before, right?” Gem said. She wasn’t speaking particularly loudly, but still her voice sent a jolt through Grian; he’d become so transfixed by the stillness of the lake that he’d nearly forgotten what he’d come here for.
“Yes,” he answered. He adjusted his grip on the fishing rod, bringing it in front of him to familiarize himself with the components. While it was true that he had fished before, he never made it a hobby. When he’d first moved to Boatem, there was an allure to it, so foreign from his life inland in England, but he’d quickly bored of it when nothing ever seemed to bite. He theorized that, similar to green thumbs, there were simply two types of people in the world: those who could fish, and those who could try.
Gem passed him the tin of worms after securing one to her own hook. “They say the best season for fishing is autumn,” she said. “I was thinking about that earlier, that’s why I mentioned the field trip. If we’re going to introduce the kids, it’d be better to do it when they’re most likely to catch something.”
“Right,” Grian said, though he hadn’t any idea there was a season for fishing at all. He plucked a meaty looking worm from the tin and skewered it onto the hook, acutely aware that his actions were being watched by a professional. How embarrassing it would be to learn he’d been doing it wrong all this time. When Gem didn’t point out anything incorrect, he followed her lead and cast his line out into the fog. The bobber landed just within his sight; any further, and he’d struggle to see it dip.
“So,” said Gem once both lines had been cast, “what are the kids reading these days?”
Grian sighed. She had reminded him that the purpose of this outing was to distract him from the thoughts that pressed urgently at the back of his mind. Again, he postponed the anxiety. “Fantasy, mostly,” he responded. “There’s a fad of crime thrillers in the oldest group. I’ve had to put in a bunch of orders for James Patterson.”
“James Patterson?” Gem echoed. “Isn’t he the guy that’s written like a hundred books?”
“With the help of some ghost writers.”
“Of course.”
“I never really liked his books.”
“Well, you were always more of a textbook fan, right?”
“Yeah. If I wanted to read about murders, I’d just turn on the news.”
“I get that.”
“Do you think Mumbo’s alive?”
Gem sucked in a breath, turning to look at him. “Grian…”
“Be honest.” The last thing Grian wanted was to be coddled like an idiot, and he was terribly afraid that was what Gem was doing. If she actually thought they had a shot of finding Mumbo, wouldn’t she be helping him? Instead, she was serving as a distraction. She was trying to make him feel better. To get his mind off it.
“It’s been less than a day,” she said carefully. “He’s a grown man.” She shifted, turning her body to face him. “Grian, what if he left?”
“He would have called,” Grian said at once. “He would have answered my texts. He would have tidied his flat. This isn’t like him.”
“Maybe he just needs a break.”
“Gem, he left his door open.” A lump had formed in Grian’s throat; his voice was dangerously close to breaking. He fixed his gaze on the bobber floating in the water in front of him. He couldn’t look at her. If he did, he might actually start to cry, and he could never live that down.
“Something could have come up. A family emergency.”
“But he still would have texted,” Grian insisted. “Why didn’t he text me?”
The answers his brain supplied were obvious. He’s dead. He was kidnapped. He fell deathly ill and wandered off into the woods to lie down. And, more sinister of all: we’re just not good enough friends anymore.
Distantly, Grian could hear the splashing of Gem’s bobber as a fish found the bait. The humming of the lake was overtaken by the mechanical whirring of the spinner reel as she turned the handle. Through the smudging of the fog, he could see the line sliding across the dark water toward them.
Grian glanced back to his own line, to the bobber which sat motionless atop the glassy surface of the lake. The sun was set now; they were sitting in mostly moonlight. Grian swatted a mosquito off the back of his hand, suddenly very thankful for the coverage of his heavy sweater. It was cooler without the sun above their heads, reminding him that they had plunged surely into autumn now.
“Here he comes,” Gem muttered. There was a great splashing from the water just beneath them, and then the fish was up from the surface, flopping about in panic.
“I hate it when they do that,” Grian said softly.
“What?” Gem asked, gripping the fish’s body in her hand. “Remind you they’re alive?” She tipped her head, examining the way the hook had skewered its lip. “It’s just the way of things. Do you think the fish get disturbed when the water striders twitch?”
She took hold of the hook and wrenched it out of the fish’s mouth in one clean move, a practiced motion. For a moment, she simply held the fish securely in her hands, gazing at it as though she’d fished up an oyster’s pearl.
“They’re not supposed to eat them,” Grian blurted out. The fact had suddenly rushed to him, returning from a university education he’d all but discarded.
Gem looked up at him with an expression of confusion.
“The water striders,” he explained. “Birds are supposed to be their predators. Fish will only eat them if they’ve got no other options.”
Gem narrowed her eyes at him. She was still holding the fish, but it had ceased its floundering. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“I learned it at uni. College, I mean. It’s peculiar.”
“Yeah,” Gem breathed. “I don’t… hm. I’ll have to look into that.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Grian said quickly. “I’m just looking for something to be worried about.”
Gem exhaled a long, forceful breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to downplay the stuff with Mumbo, I just… I don’t want you to do something rash.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe this isn’t the sort of thing where you can go valiantly save him.” She lowered her voice discretely, as if the water wasn’t carrying every word. “Maybe… maybe he didn’t want you to save him.”
Grian nearly dropped the fishing rod he was holding. He whirled around, tossing it back onto the dock in a mess to round on Gem. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Gem’s face scrunched up, as if to say the words caused her physical pain. “I don’t mean anything. But the way you described it… ignoring your texts, leaving his apartment a mess, no signs of forced entry… and you said you’ve grown apart recently. Does he have any other friends here?”
“Of course he does,” Grian snapped. “He’s – they’re – I’m his friend, doesn’t that count?”
“It counts,” Gem reassured him. “But if he’s been withdrawing, and then he—”
“No.”
“I’m not saying for certain, but you’ve got to consider—”
“I’m not considering what’s clearly total nonsense.” But he was. Already, the images were flooding in. Mumbo’s phone buzzing with Grian’s call, willfully ignored by its owner. Mumbo lying in darkness in his bed all weekend, letting the rubbish pile up, staring at Grian’s contact name and thinking better of it. And then, finally, Monday morning – or Sunday night, even – staggering out of his apartment without bothering to check the door behind him and going… where? Where would he have gone? Out of town, probably. Out into the woods far enough that he wouldn’t be found. That was the most likely answer. The only other option was the lake.
Grian jumped to his feet as though he’d been burned. The black water stared back at him, undisturbed like a sheet of obsidian. Gem was staring at him, but that feeling of constriction had returned and he was struggling to force air into his lungs. His hand went to his chest, pulling the fabric of his sweater and undershirt from his skin as if that was the thing inhibiting his breathing.
“Grian,” Gem said. She was beside him, her hands hovering just short of touching him.
“He’s dead,” he choked out.
“No, he’s not.”
“You said—”
“I didn’t mean it. We’ll find him.”
“Don’t lie.” The words came out as a wheeze. His vision was blurred as if he’d taken off his glasses, but he could still feel them against the skin of his face.
“I’m sorry,” Gem said. “I’m not handling this right.” Her hands were on his shoulders now, but he could barely feel it, only the slight increase of pressure. “What do you want to do? We can go to the police. I’m sorry.”
She was babbling, clearly distraught over Grian’s reaction, but at least she was coming at it from his angle finally. “His flat,” he got out. His chest hurt less, his head was less hazy from lack of oxygen, but he still couldn’t breathe right.
“Okay,” Gem said. “Take a breath with me, slowly.”
Grian knew what she was doing. It was the same thing all of the teachers had been taught to employ when a kid was throwing a tantrum, to redirect their focus inward on calming their body. It was taught to him as a method for kids, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t work for adults too, so Grian followed her commands. He took his breaths slowly, aligning the rising of his chest to hers to set the pace. The buzzing in his head quieted, allowing room for coherent thoughts. His mind and his body clicked back into place.
“That was stupid,” he said at last. “Sorry.” His voice was laced with a nervous laugh, as if this was all a very silly thing to happen.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Gem said gently. Her hands retreated from his shoulders, wrapping awkwardly around herself. “Does that happen often?”
“No,” Grian answered. “I mean, what counts as often? I don’t think so. I guess I wouldn’t know.” He smartly shut up before the rambling went on.
Gem was regarding him curiously, as if she’d just discovered a piece to a puzzle she’d been struggling at for days. “That must be really hard,” she said.
“Oh, it’s not – it’s not a thing , if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Okay.” She stepped back, though it was only a small step to the edge of the dock. The wood plank creaked beneath her. “Are you sure you don’t want to go down to the station?”
“I’m sure,” Grian said. That, of anything, he was certain of. “If they follow the same line of thinking as you, they’ll shut the investigation before it even begins. And if it’s public, if it got out—”
“That makes sense,” Gem said, and Grian let out a breath in relief. “His apartment, then?”
“If there’s answers to find, we’ll find them there.”
Gem nodded, meeting Grian’s gaze, and the moonlight shimmered in her eyes. “And you’re sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Perfectly fine.”
Gem chewed her lip for a moment, considering. A fly landed in her hair and she paid it no notice. Finally, she spoke. “Can I hug you?”
Grian blinked in surprise, but he only hesitated a second longer before nodding. He expected Gem to practically jump at him, but she moved carefully, folding her arms around him, and the feeling was so unexpectedly pleasant that he feared he might start crying. Instead, he tipped his head into the crook of her neck, burying his face in the soft curls of her hair and forgetting the fly that was probably still there. Beyond them, the insects of the lake and the woods hummed, but it no longer sounded like an ominous chant; rather, it felt remarkably like the wildlife had learned how to sing. And here, in the peaceful embrace of someone he wouldn’t be prideful enough to call a friend, Grian was suddenly aware of the fact that he was nearly thirty four years old and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a proper hug.
“Honestly,” Gem murmured into his shoulder, “I’m afraid.”
He knew she was expecting him to commiserate, to tell her that he was just as terrified, but he couldn’t. It was as if he had long since forgotten how to say the words. Instead, he only pulled Gem tighter, briefly, before retreating. He turned back to the end of the dock immediately, unable to meet her eyes, busying himself with fetching the fishing rods. There was an unsteadiness lingering in his bones, but he fought it. There was no time for rest now. He had a mystery to solve.