Girl, Missing by Sophie McKenzie

Glane. OK, so maybe the guy wasn’t an axe-murderer, but he was definitely an insufferably pompous jerk-head.
    â€˜I don’t see what being a man’s got to do with it,’ I snapped. ‘Anyway, Jam’s only fifteen. Not exactly a man.’
    â€˜He is trying to become one,’ Glane said. He tugged at the stitched fleece, testing to see if it held. ‘It’s not as easy as you think. Especially without a father to guide you. Here. Your linings are finished.’
    He handed them to me. They looked like thick, furry socks.
    â€˜Jam
has
a father,’ I said. ‘His parents are divorced, not dead. It’s me who’s lost my parents.’
    Glane moved the lantern closer and started tidying away scraps of fleece.
    The words were out of my mouth before I realised I was going to say them.
    â€˜I’ve seen her face,’ I said. ‘In my memories. My real mum. I found her. I mean . . . in my dream. But I know she’s there, waiting for me.’
    I stopped. What was I doing? My memories were private, secret, fragile. And here I was, blabbing about them to this weird guy I’d only just met.
    Glane stared at me. ‘But Lauren,’ he said. ‘This is all only inside your head. It is not real.’
    I pulled on the boot linings.
    Glane didn’t understand. How could he? It’s impossible to explain what it feels like, when something inside your head is more real than your real life.

18
    Out of the woods
    We left very early the next morning. A few snowflakes whirled down from a cloudy sky, but Glane was confident there wouldn’t be a storm. He loaned us jumpers and hats and gloves.
    The fleece linings Glane had made padded out his enormous walking boots well, but they still felt big and heavy on my feet. My legs ached by the time we stopped for a brief meal of bread (baked in the cabin fire in a sealed tin the night before) and water (fresh melted snow – boiled then cooled).
    We walked and walked, past endless trees and along snow-covered tracks. Glane never looked once at a map, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going the whole time.
    It was almost dark when we arrived at Wells Canyon Lodge, on the outskirts of what Glane said was a small town about two hundred miles east of Burlington. My legs were totally exhausted and my eyes were sore from the sun and snow.
    Glane booked us all in and we went upstairs. As Jam and I trudged along the corridor to our rooms, my stomach churned. I dreaded calling Mum. She would be mad enough with me for running off. How on earth was I going to get her to understand how much I needed to find my real mother?
    Jam looked pretty anxious too. He went into his room without saying anything. Mine was a few doors down. Bare, but clean. I smoothed my hand over the nubby cotton counterpane. A large, old-fashioned white phone stood beside the bed. I stared at it.
    It took me five minutes to work up the courage to dial Mum’s mobile number.
    â€˜Hello?’ A voice like a wound-up spring.
    â€˜Mum?’
    â€˜Lauren.’ The voice almost collapsed in on itself. ‘Are you all right? Are you safe?’
    â€˜I’m OK, Mum, everything’s fine.’
    â€˜Oh my God, Lauren.’ Mum dissolved into tears.
    I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’
    â€˜Where
are
you?’
    I told her. But when I tried to explain what had happened, she just kept asking over and over if I was really all right.
    â€˜We’re still in Boston, but we can be with you in a few hours,’ she said. ‘Dad’s here too. And the FBI. They tracked you to Burlington, but no one remembered you after that.You’ll have to talk to them about who took you from the airport, but—’
    I sat up, my heart thudding. What was she talking about? ‘Wait. Mum. Listen. Back at Logan Airport – we left on . . . on purpose. It was me. I got Jam to do it. But I had to find out. About where I