Are You Lost

It was Thursday and the Montana State Troopers reported that Abigail Trout had been missing for seventy-two hours, which I later learned happened to be the Autumnal Equinox. She was reportedly last seen hiking down near Hollowtop Pond on the day when day and night are perfectly balanced. Every day after that perfect one would be a little darker than the last. At least for a while.

Mr. Trout was on the local news the next evening, forehead sweaty and dripping in nerves, lips puckering like his namesake, pleading for the safe return of his stepdaughter.

"Any information, any tip, no matter how small or insignificant it may feel, might mean the world to us…"

He broke into sniffles on camera, squeaking like a rusted metal spring forcibly stretched wide. The news then cut away respectfully and a missing poster flashed on the screen. It was a severely outdated photo, the only one Mr. Trout likely had on hand. A picture from middle school, the girl in the image smirking through thick braces, hand on her tubby waist, hiding beneath her long dyed orange hair.

Thank god so much can change since middle school.

I can’t tell you why I joined the search party after watching it be advertised it on the news. Guilt, most likely. To retrace the past seventy-two hours, maybe. To ensure every turned stone would be restored to its upright spot, as nature would want. And to confirm my suspicion that the weepy man on T.V. wouldn’t actually be there to help in the search. And sure enough, Mr. Trout himself was nowhere to be found that steely day. I arrived late and hung in the back; it was cold out so I came bundled with my hood up. There was a decent smattering of folks in attendance, none of whom I recognized by the backs of their heads. The head park ranger was wrapping up his half-hearted pep talk and then instructed us to fan out with a wide berth from each other. An article of clothing had indeed been found by Hollowtop Pond, but they had already searched the area and encouraged us to fan out elsewhere. I obliged, turning and jogging away to a side trail.

Eyes on the ground, tread carefully were the instructions. Which means they knew we were supposed to be looking for a body.

Out of sight of the nearest neon-vested volunteer, I stopped behind a Ponderosa tree and lifted my face to the waning sun. I sucked in the free mountain air flowing down off the peak of Hollowtop, listening. Not a single volunteer bothered to shout out “ABIGAIL!” and yet, I still heard the name echo through the trees back to me.

As the day went on, I recreated the path toward the pond, mucking new footprints over old ones. Eyes on the ground, I treaded carefully to erase all evidence of the past.

Eventually the dirt trail turned to snowy stone as the pond drew closer. I stopped and stared at the white clumps of snow disguising the path forward to the glossy water clumped with broken pieces of ice.

“Are you lost?” a voice asked and I turned around. It was a female park ranger. She was smiling at me with deep smile lines that looked like when you throw a stone in a lake and the water ripples on either side. She had gorgeously long, bark-brown hair with cracks of silver that nearly made me regret just chopping mine off.

“Not really,” I said. I’m with the search party, so I don’t have anywhere specific I’m supposed to be.”

The park ranger nodded and scanned the woods. “I think they’re wrapping up for the day soon. You’re kind to be helping out. It’s easy to attract looky-loos and gossips, but hard to find citizens that are really committed to getting the person found.”

“Do people get lost out here a lot?”

“Surprisingly no, given how many thousands of acres the park covers. We get missing persons reports often, sure. But they’re rarely actually missing. Just got lost for a bit.”

“Are they ever, like, peeved that you found them?”

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“What if they don’t want to be found?”

“You don’t want Abigail found?” The park ranger asked, playfully sizing me up from a simple head tilt. But I was more concerned about the way she said "Abigail." It was so familial, so hopeful.

“People run away all the time. Girls in my high school, they talk about it at lunch in the cafeteria like it’s casual. Running away to Canada, to New York, Vegas, whatever.”

“Did you know her?” A logical question to ask.

“A little, not really.”

“Did she ever talk about running away?” She asked.

I didn’t reply immediately and, when she turned to look at me I must’ve been blushing, because she added, “I’m not a cop, you know. Just an nosy old lady. Me, I love Montana. I could never leave.”

She talked just like my mom. Always saying things like "Me, I hate the rain" and "Me, I don't like the way that neighbor dog looks at me." It always made me chuckle, even when it ended up being the last thing she ever said to me before she died. "He’ll take good care of you. Me, I trust him."

“She did once, yeah.” I stumbled, “She said...to be honest, she wanted to run away and drown herself in the pond.”

“This one?” She asked.

“Yep. So…maybe that’s what she did. And she didn't want to be found.”

The park ranger flipped her hair braid and looked out over the water.

“That actually wouldn’t be possible. The pond’s been frozen all week. It only started breaking up this morning.”

Shoot.

She looked back at me again curiously. “So maybe she got to the pond and realized it could be a bridge. That there was solid ground beneath her. To hold her up.”

Shoot.

“...So maybe isn’t it time you come home, Abigail?” The ranger asked.

I nearly choked. It was as though all the fresh air I had taken in through the day was furiously sucked back out by the pond.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

At first, I thought I was screaming in reply. But when the park ranger suddenly whipped around to the sound and took off into the forest, I realized I had been completely paralyzed. It wasn’t coming from my mouth at all, but some sort of animal shrieking in the distance.

I should have taken the opportunity to flee, but for some reason I took off after the ranger. Though an older lady, I could barely keep up with her sprinting. She dodged branches, leapt over tree roots hidden by piles of leaves, and only turned to shout “POISON IVY!” back at me when I was about to crash into a web of it. Finally, she dropped down to her knees as the screaming creature grew louder.

I landed behind her, hood from my sweatshirt flung over my face as I bent forward to catch my breath. I threw the hood back and saw it. A mangy cottontail rabbit flipping around like a tattered kite in the wind, whining in pain; its back leg snapped tight in a small steel trap.

“These traps are expressly forbidden…” The ranger gritted as she tried to pick open the trap, quickly pulling her hand back each time the animal jolted upward. She then looked up at me with beautiful, warm eyes and a motherly sense of determination.

“You need to hold it down while I let it free.”

“No, no, I can’t—” I stammered.

“Yes, you can. Quickly. It’s suffering.”

It’s suffering. I knew what that was.

I collapsed next to her and held down the rabbit right beneath its armpits. Patches of its hair was missing, the naked sharpness of its ribs rubbing against my fingers.

“Hold on….hold on…almost there...” The ranger reassured me...or the animal...or both of us. The trap snapped open, the ranger fell backward, and in an instant the rabbit slipped out between my clutches and vanished entirely.

“Shoot! It ran off!” I exclaimed, “Is it okay?”

“I don’t see any blood. So, maybe? Its leg could be sprained, could be broken. I didn’t get a good look.” She wiped the dirt off her knees.

I looked up beyond the canopy of trees above us. It was just after sunset.

The park ranger slowly rose to her feet, plucking the chain of the trap up like a crime scene investigator collecting evidence.

“Come on, let’s get this thing back to the ranger station. And allow us to call off the search—let the good people go home. Don’t you think?”

She started back toward the trail, not waiting for me to come. I followed behind all the same.

We walked in silence back to the trail, then down it toward camp, listening to the sounds of the woods and the swinging chain from the trap, only speaking after I’d occasionally slip on a rock or root and she’d murmur “You okay?” and I’d “mm-hmm” back.

Soon, the sound of the swinging chain became too much to bear.

“I think…it’ll be okay.” I said aloud.

“The rabbit?”

“I think she got caught in a trap. And she was suffering, but now she’s free. And she just needs to run away.”

She stopped and we looked at each other.

“She got caught in a trap?” she repeated.

I nodded. She looked at me, thinking.

“I hate hunters that set traps like these. They just set it up and then are nowhere to be found when the suffering happens. They're cowards.”

I nodded.

“If that’s true then get running. Get out of here. No reason to hang around waiting to get bit again.”

And that was it. Whatever hold was on me snapped open and I could finally run. I blinked and disappeared into the woods, back past that pond I had fantasized about jumping into for years, currently crumbling with broken pieces like me but would become solid again.

It was dark now and would be for awhile, until day breaks.