How many minutes are passing between the moment Joey stops being the Joey we know now and becomes the Joey we knew last year? I can’t tell.
I think of what he told me. Feeling wings spreading inside himself. Like he was loved, but also didn’t care if he was loved.
That he’s probably thinking since he already slipped once, why would it matter now?
I let you down.
Joey appears back on camera. Hank stays for a minute.
“I was asking if he was okay. He looked paler. He said he was all right. I’m sorry.” Hank is twisting his orange Hank’s Hoagies cap in his hands.
Hank leaves the register and Joey restocks napkins, takes orders, and slowly, I begin to see it.
We can all see it.
The way his movements get slower. Each punch of the register keys takes longer than the one before. He starts weaving back and forth. He slumps forward, his head drifting to the counter. A customer waves his hands and Hank comes out, pats Joey on the back.
“He looked very sick, like I said. The flu. A stomach thing. I told him to go home.”
“I’m a doctor,” my dad says softly. “It’s probably heroin. He’s about to throw up. And after that, he’ll either be very, very high, or very, very dead. Oh, Joey.”
My dad’s voice cracks. He reaches for my hand, holds it hard.
“And then he left,” Hank says. “You can see from the alley view, right here, that he gets in his car and drives away.”
One of the policemen is taking notes. “We’ll track his cell, but he probably ditched it after texting his sister. And we can keep a lookout for the car, but in my experience, he’s probably going to sell it for parts for quick money. Chop shop or something. Whatever he can get.”
“How would he even know how to do that?” my father asks.
Ted the tall cop shrugs. “You’d be surprised. People and drugs…it’s like living a double life.”
Caroline shakes her head. “This is so very sad. So many people like this now. Here, in Mill Haven, of all places.”
“Did you check the register, Hank? Any money missing?”
“He’s not a thief,” my father says.
“It’s not him, sir,” says Ted. “It’s his addiction. People do what they have to.”
Hank says, “The money is fine. It’s already been counted. I do hope you find him soon, though. It’s his birthday in four days. See, I have the employee birthday calendar right here. We buy a cake, sing a song.”
“It’s a real nice time,” Caroline adds.
He shows us a tiny desk calendar. Someone has drawn a birthday cake and written Joey on the date.
My dad sucks in his breath, hard.
“What?” I say. “What?”
“He turns eighteen,” my father says, his voice barely a whisper. “And then it’s no longer a priority to look for him. He’s an adult. He can do as he pleases. Isn’t that right?”
I squeeze my dad’s hand.
If we don’t find Joey soon, we’ll lose him forever.
The policemen look at each other and then my dad.
“That’s correct,” Ted says kindly. “He wouldn’t be a priority. He’s eighteen and he can go wherever he likes.”
* * *
—
My mother sits in silence in the backseat as we drive home. The not-talking is killing me. I want them to say something, do something, anything, so we don’t have to sit in the silence anymore.
“Dad,” I say suddenly. “Turn here.”
“Why?”
“It’s the bridge. Where the ghosties are. Let me check. Maybe he’s there.”
“Emory,” my mother says sharply. “That’s dangerous. I can’t have you going down there. That’s for the police.”
“Dad,” I say, ignoring her, my voice hard. “Turn, let me look.”
My dad puts the turn signal on.
“Neil!”
“He’s our son, Abigail.”
He parks in the dirt lot that overlooks Frost Bridge and the river.
You can see them from there. Tarps and tents, shopping carts and sleeping bags. A few fires in metal trash cans, flickering in the light rain.
“We’ll be right back,” my dad tells my mom. “Text Nana. Let her know what’s happening.”
My father and I get out of the car and pick our way down the wet, worn path in the dark, stepping over crushed soda cups. Condoms. Needles.
“Be careful,” he says.
But I don’t care. I just want to get down to the site, to see if Joey is there.
“Emmy,” my father says. “Don’t just go barreling in there.”
I turn around. “Dad, I want to find Joey. Don’t you?”
“I do, Emory.” He takes a deep breath. “But this is their home. It’s not just something you barge into. You wouldn’t like it if someone just broke down our door, would you? You can show respect.”
Some of them are looking at us.
“Excuse me,” my dad says, stepping in front of me protectively. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for my son. Tall kid named Joey. Wearing an orange shirt? From the hoagie shop on Main? Short hair, kind of messy. Got in a fight, has a bruised cheek.”
Spent needles gleam around the edges of my dad’s shoes. I shrink a little behind him.
There must be fifty people down here. It’s hard to tell in the dark, and some of them are sleeping huddled together. All of them are wet from spending the day in the rain.
A woman stands up. “I haven’t seen anyone like that today. I’ve been here since around noon.”
Her face is dirty.
“Can you, maybe, if you do see him, ask him to come home, please?” I say.
“I sure will,” the woman says. Her voice is pleasant, like we’re talking about the weather and not some messed-up missing kid.
My father nods. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“You think you could help out a bit?” the woman says.
My father looks startled. “Yes, of course.”
He peels some bills out of his wallet and hands them to the woman.
“Bless you,” she says. She takes the bills, counts them, tucks them inside her jacket.
My father hesitates, looking around at all the people. The flickering fire. The empty soup cans. Rolls of toilet paper, right out in the open, next to sleeping bags and blankets.
A couple of people get up and stand next to the woman.
There are so many people down here. Like my dad said, this is their home. In the cold rain. Freezing and huddling together for warmth.
My father makes a little sound in his throat, looking at all of them.
Then he takes the rest of the money from his wallet and clears some of the needles aside with his sneaker. He spreads out his handkerchief on the ground and lays the money on it carefully, so it’s not dirty from the ground when they pick it up.
“Thank you,” he says. “For your help.”
* * *
—
Back in the car, he sits for a long time, watching them.
He turns around to face my mother. Her face is frightened, which scares me, because she’s never frightened. Or at least, she doesn’t show it.
“Look at these people, Abigail. This is our town. Your town.”