As they walked into the city at night, trailing the Beast for the final time, it began to snow. At first the flakes were light, the weight and consistency of fine ash, but as they walked into the city and the night passed, the flakes became thicker, falling like the particles in a snow globe, swirling and difficult to see through. The roads remained wet, not allowing the snow to accumulate, but it created a white coating everywhere else. It lay gently on Cohen’s shoulders and head and didn’t quite melt, forming an icy skin.
“Isn’t this splendid?” Than muttered, constantly brushing the ice from his shoulders.
Hippie didn’t seem to be affected. She never was. She continued walking, and for a little while she took the lead, putting some distance between herself and the two boys.
Cohen watched her walk. There was something of a cat about her movement: smooth, graceful, and balanced. But she was also on the prowl, looking here and there, touching every tree she passed, searching for the shadow sign left behind by the Beast. He was amazed again at the translucence of her skin, the artistic curve of her fingers, the shape of her.
“Don’t even think about it,” Than said with a harsh laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t even think about it.”
Cohen paused, giving in to the fact that Than knew what he was thinking. “Why?” He watched as Hippie approached a dark alley.
“Why? Why?” Than parroted the sound of Cohen’s voice, darting his arm out and holding it up like a security measure, stopping both of them. He stared at Cohen with a confused look. “You don’t know anything about us. Not one thing.”
“I know your names,” Cohen said, taken aback, scrambling to think of all he knew about the two.
Than shook his head.
“Those aren’t your names?”
“Yes, they’re our names,” he said as if Cohen had completely missed the point.
“So what’s . . .”
“Anyone can tell you their name. That doesn’t mean you know the first thing about them.”
Cohen glanced nervously up the street at Hippie. She was at the dark alley. She stopped and looked into its shadowy depths.
“So, who are you?” Cohen asked, accusation in his voice. “If I don’t know anything, tell me.”
A seriousness descended on Than, a kind of thoughtful weight, and when he spoke Cohen couldn’t tell if Than was talking to him or to himself.
Than lowered his arm, took a step back, and leaned against a telephone pole. “I can’t lie to you. But I can’t tell you everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask me. What do you want to know about us?”
“I don’t know. Where do you live? And don’t say in that cave.”
Than shrugged. “It’s dry. Usually warm. We used to live in that trailer, until the Beast burned it down.”
“Parents?”
“No mom.” He paused.
“And your dad?” Cohen asked.
Than twisted his mouth to the side as if he wasn’t sure how to answer, as if the answer was a riddle. “Yes,” he said slowly. “And no.”
“Whatever. This is pointless.” Cohen turned to walk away, but Than grabbed his shoulder.
“You don’t know us,” he said, glancing up the street to where Hippie was taking a piece of paper down from a light post.
“Whatever,” Cohen said again.
Hippie interrupted them. “Guys. You should see this.”
Cohen trotted up to where she stood in the shadow of the alley, glad to put some space, even temporarily, between him and Than. Still, they both arrived at about the same time and looked at what Hippie had in her hands. A siren sounded somewhere in the distance.
It was a photocopied picture of Cohen, growing wet as snowflakes rested on it and melted. Above it was the word “MISSING.” Below it was the phone number for the police and the funeral home.
The handwriting looked like Ava’s.