This was twelve-year-old Josie Doyle’s existence when she awoke the morning of August 11, 2000, with giddy anticipation. She dressed quickly and pulled her unruly brown hair into a ponytail.
She needed to pack and make a list of all the most important attractions to show her best friend, Becky, a state fair first-timer. But first, breakfast and chores. Josie ate quickly and flew through her assigned tasks.
It was then that Josie noticed that their chocolate Lab, Roscoe was nowhere to be found. This wasn’t unusual in itself.
Roscoe was a roamer. He’d take off for hours at a time, wandering around the countryside, but Roscoe always came home and never missed breakfast. Josie would lift the lid on the plastic bin that held the fifty-pound bag of dog food, and he’d come running with cobwebs of saliva dripping from his jowls.
That morning there was no Roscoe. Josie dumped a scoop of kibble into his bowl, filled his water dish with water from the hose, and then moved on to the chickens.
To help pass the time before Becky arrived, Josie went with her father as he mended fences along the northern section of their property. His gloved hands moved expertly as he stretched and wrapped and crimped the barbwire. Josie prattled on about the upcoming state fair and danced in and out of his line of vision, nearly tumbling into the rusty fence. Josie, small for her age, seemed to others to have endless energy.
While her father worked, Josie moved aimlessly along the edge of the road gathering wildflowers as she went. She heard the truck before seeing it. The popcorn snap of gravel. She turned and saw the truck’s nose just around a curve in the road. Josie waited for the vehicle to drive past, but it just sat there, so she continued picking Black-eyed Susan and milkweed for her mother.
Again came the crackle of rock beneath tires. Josie turned, and the truck stopped. She moved, and it followed, slowly keeping pace. Josie squinted to see who was in the passenger’s seat, but the sun was a shimmering gold disc in the east, making it impossible to know. She wasn’t scared. Her brother’s friends, she figured, teasing.
“Ha, ha,” Josie called. “Very funny!” She reached down and picked up a small pebble and threw it toward the truck. It landed on the ground with an unsatisfying plink. Slowly, she walked toward the vehicle, and it began reversing.
Weird, she thought and took another few steps toward the truck. It backed up another twenty feet. A game of tag. Boldly, Josie trotted toward the truck, sure that it held her brother’s obnoxious friends.
As she drew closer, Josie could see the silhouette of one person in the cab. A hunched figure, seed cap pulled low over his forehead. The truck rolled backward.
Just then, a shout came from across the field. Josie’s dad beckoning her back to him. She gave the idling truck one final look, but by the time Josie reached her dad forgot all about it.
Back at the house, Josie dared to open her brother’s bedroom door in hopes of getting him to help her look for Roscoe.
“Leave me alone,” Ethan said. He was sitting on the floor, his back pressed up against the bed.
“But Roscoe didn’t come home last night, don’t you care?” she asked.
“Not really,” Ethan said flatly as he flipped through a magazine.
“What if he got hit by a car?” Josie asked, her voice rising. Ethan shrugged, not bothering to look at her.
“You’ll feel bad if he doesn’t come home,” Josie said, grabbing a paperback book from the top of Ethan’s dresser and tossing it to him, knocking the magazine from his hands. Josie couldn’t help laughing.
“Get the fuck out of my room,” Ethan snarled, reaching for one of his steel-toed work boots and hurling it at Josie. It struck just above her head, taking a small chunk out of the door frame.
Josie retreated quickly and ran into the bathroom, where she locked the door behind her. Ethan had been acting so bizarre lately. Getting in fights, drinking, calls from the school, calls from the sheriff. She never knew what to expect when they crossed paths, which wasn’t very often since he stayed holed up in his room as much as possible. Josie waited until she heard Ethan’s bedroom door open and his footsteps on the stairs before poking her head from the bathroom.
At four thirty, Becky and her mother, Margo Allen, pulled down the lane, and Josie ran outside to greet them, the screen door slamming behind her. Becky had long curly black hair that she constantly complained about and big expressive brown eyes. “I’ll give you my hair, if I can have your name,” Becky would always say.
Josie would have gladly made the trade. She thought Becky was beautiful, and so did everyone else. Soon after she turned thirteen, boys had been calling Becky’s home and more and more she was begging off spending time with Josie to hang out with town kids. But this weekend was going to be different; Josie had Becky all to herself. They would talk and laugh and do all the things they did before life seemed so complicated.