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He leads me deeper into the store, past the bikes and kayaks and a mock campsite on a patch of fake grass. It’s elaborate for a store display. There’s a circle of rocks spewing red and yellow cellophane flames, two canvas camp chairs, a cooler, a grill, a lantern. Plopped in the middle of it all is an orange tent that looks exactly like the one I had as a child.
The one Billy was taken from.
I never saw it again after that day. The police took the tent and everything inside it. Our sleeping bags. Our pillows. Even the pair of Air Jordans I’d kicked off before going to sleep. All of it was evidence that, after endless inspection and examination, yielded nothing about what actually happened that night.
The tent in the store sets my pulse racing in what I can only assume is a fit of PTSD. Like the baseballs in my yard, its presence feels like a prank. I turn to Russ, wanting to accuse him of insensitivity at best, cruelty at worst. But I know he didn’t set up this fake campsite just to mess with me. One, he wouldn’t do such a thing and, two, he didn’t even know I’d be coming to the store today. The tent being here is without a doubt a coincidence.
“It’s cool, right?” Russ says. “Jen helped me set it up.”
I stare at the display, its charm eclipsed by a sense of déjà vu. I barely notice how a fan hidden inside the fake firepit gently crinkles the cellophane flames. Or that a speaker shaped like a rock emits the light chirp of birdsong. All I can focus on is the tent itself and how I fear that if I close my eyes, there’ll be a slash in its side when I open them.
Then the tent begins to move—a tiny quake that brings with it a confounding realization.
Something is inside.
The tent’s front flaps start to open, and I brace myself for the sight of Billy. Not gone. Just misplaced for the past thirty years. Looking not like he does in those age-progression photos on his NamUs listing but exactly the way he did the last time I saw him.
While a little boy does eventually emerge from the tent, it’s not Billy. It’s Henry, who looks up at me uncertainly as he says, “Hi, Mr. Marsh.”
“Oh, hey,” Russ says. “You’re Henry, right?”
“Hi, Mr. Chen.”
Henry gives a little wave that Russ doesn’t see because he’s too busy eyeing me with confusion. “Is he with you?”
“Yeah.” I do a little shimmy, trying to shake myself back to the present. “Ashley needed me to watch him for a few hours. I told him he could look around, but not to touch anything.”
“I needed a quiet place to read,” Henry says, holding up his book.
“It’s all good,” Russ says. “Do you like camping?”
“I’ve never experienced it.” Henry stands and brushes his knees, as if he had just moved across the forest floor and not fake grass in the middle of a strip mall store. “But as a reading space, the tent is quite satisfactory.”
“Good to hear,” Russ says before clapping his hands together. “Now, let’s look at those trail cams.”
Henry and I follow him away from the campsite display to a shelf at the back of the store filled with boxes of trail cams.
“How much are you looking to spend?”
A very good question. Until my teaching job starts in a few weeks, I’m not exactly flush with cash. Then again, I don’t want to buy something so cheap that it barely works.
“I guess I want the best one.”
“Music to my ears,” Russ says with a grin before taking a box down from the shelf and showing it to me. “Our top model. Most trail cams need an SD card to save the pictures on. This one comes with an app and uses Bluetooth to send 4K images directly to your phone. It’s motion-activated, of course. A deer or something steps in front of the camera and, click, a picture of it goes right to your phone.”
I scan the back of the box, reading the camera’s features. It has night vision, which is a must, and a range of a hundred feet. Definitely enough to catch the person dropping baseballs there. The camera also has different settings, including one for direct sunlight and a sports mode with a faster shutter speed.
“How much is it?”
Russ quotes the price, which prompts a low whistle of shock from me. My first car cost less.
“I’ve got plenty of cheaper options,” Russ says. “It all depends on what you’re trying to do. Are you just mildly curious that something’s coming into the yard? Or do you want proof of it?”
Definitely the latter. Yes, I could simply stay up and stake out the backyard all night. It’s not like I’ll be missing out on much sleep. But Imightmiss whoever’s doing this. They’ve been surprisingly stealthy so far. Even though it costs a small fortune, this trail cam is my best hope at catching the person entering my yard.
“I need proof,” I say. “I’ll take this one.”
TEN