Chapter 10

Oak’s mom wouldn’t be home from the office for another hour or so. And because of the rain, the construction workers weren’t on the roof either. Oak unlocked the front door and slammed inside, breathing heavily from the run and dripping onto the entry hall floor. She let her backpack slide to the entry hall rug, and she pulled down the zipper on her sweatshirt. It was heavy with rainwater, soaked nearly through, just from the time it had taken her to go from the bus to her front door.

It felt good to be safe and sound inside. Oak knelt to untie her shoes, and at the same time she called, “Walnut! Here, kitty!”

There was no answer. Oak stayed still, hands on the laces of her sneaker, and listened.

Nothing.

“Walnut?” she called again.

When there was still no sound—no meow, no thump from the kitten jumping off the bed—Oak stood up, shoes still tied. Slowly, she walked through the living room and toward the hallway to her bedroom.

A terrible feeling was beginning to rise in her, a feeling she couldn’t connect to anything particular—just the uncomfortable, anxious knowledge that in a moment she would realize something.

The door to her bedroom was partway closed. Maybe that was why Walnut hadn’t heard her calling him, Oak thought, but she knew that wasn’t true. She knew she was lying to herself. Slowly, Oak pushed open the door. She stepped into her room.

Oh, it was cold! Wind leaked in like a ghost through the window that—oh, no—the window that Oak had left cracked open that morning before school, thinking that a little fresh air would be good for Walnut.

But now, Oak saw, the screen had come loose—was it from the wind? The rain? She didn’t know, only that it was loose, and the window was open, and Walnut was gone.

“No,” she whispered, and she spun around and ran for the front door. “Walnut,” she called, throwing open the door.

The storm had redoubled. The sky, a flat plane of steel gray, felt oppressively close, and rain flew in sideways sheets, soaking through Oak’s long-sleeved T-shirt in seconds. “Walnut!” she called again. Her hair dripped in strings across her face, and she wiped it back.

What was that—there, by the tree stump, did she see something? A flash, a movement, maybe something orange? It was there—she was sure of it! But then Oak blinked the rain from her eyes and it was gone.

Maybe it was her kitten. Oak headed toward the tree stump, leaning into the wind. “Walnut!” she called, and then she heard something—

Another voice, sounding as desperate as she felt, yelling, “Fern!”

She didn’t have time to wonder what that was about. Her kitten was out here somewhere, alone, soaking wet, scared. And it was her fault.

“Walnut!” she called again, pushing into the wind—it was almost as if the wind’s hands were on her shoulders, trying to push her back, but she leaned even farther forward, she insisted her way toward the tree stump, where she had seen the flash of orange.

Nearer now, the other voice called, “Fern!”

And then it was nearly upon her—“Fern!” There was Alder, under the large canopy of a black umbrella, pushing forward, as she was, to the same spot in the yard. The wind cruelly pressed on the umbrella’s fabric, folding it inward. Alder was using it like a shield, holding it in front of himself as he pushed forward, and Oak could tell that he didn’t see her there in front of him.

“Hey!” she called before he could jab her with the umbrella’s sharp spike. He stopped abruptly, and his sudden shift allowed the wind to catch underneath the umbrella’s canopy, flipping it inside out to reveal its silver skeleton beneath.

It would have been funny except that just then, three things happened: first, both Oak and Alder saw the same dash of orange movement—“My kitten!” they both called. Second, Oak remembered with an icy shock of fear that one should never carry anything metal during a storm, and she moved to knock the umbrella from Alder’s hand. And third, a ragged flash of lighting tore across the sky.

And then, there was nothing.