Signs of You by Emily France Page B

that bride by the dumpster; I hear her voice over and over.
    I text Noah again. I ask where he is. I ask him to text me something, anything—a comma, a period, any emoji he wants—just to let me know he’s okay.
    But he doesn’t text back.
    About three and a half hours in, we start seeing signs for tourists, advertisements for things to do in Maryland. I try to read every sign to keep my mind in the present, to slow my brain down. There’s a billboard for a restaurant called Medieval Meals where for f ifty dollars you can get all the large turkey legs and jousting you can handle—all inside a “real castle.” The only problem is that you can tell from the picture that the “real castle” is totally and obviously made of cinderblocks. Then there’s a sign for Assateague Island where apparently a large herd of ponies “still runs free” and you can “bond with the horse spirit.”
    It’s a testament to how scared we are that no one comments on any of this. Dinner and fake jousting in a cinderblock castle? A pony island with “ass” as its root word? But even Kate can’t muster a wisecrack.
    It’s just before two o’clock when we reach Catoctin Mountain Park. Kate holds the map we took down from Noah’s wall and calls out directions as we take a winding road that curves through the entrance. It feels darker than it should at this time of day; the sunlight is muted by crowded pine trees and oaks. Jay drives up a steep hill past a small, muddy lake. Ducks waddle underneath a sign that reads in chipped-off paint: ridenhour lake . We drive for what feels like ages and f inally come to the southern border of the park. Kate tells Jay to stop.
    â€œThere was a pin on the map here,” she says. “And a line down this road and up a creek.”
    â€œBut this will take us just outside the park,” Jay says.
    â€œI know, but look,” Kate points at the map. “This is where Noah’s pin was, and the line goes right down this road.”
    I sit up to get a closer look. “What’s that writing? There? Is it a number?”
    â€œFour twenty-six,” Jay says. “No idea what that means.”
    Jay pulls the car to the side of the road and we all get out and start walking. Intense heat comes off the dark pavement; the smell of baking tar f loats up my nose. Dragonf lies hover in the humid air, and I swat big black f lies away from my arms.
    Finally, we reach a driveway with a mailbox. It’s 426 Blake’s Creek Road. And at the end of it is a house—a plain white one-story farmhouse that looks normal enough. Next to the driveway is a creek. It snakes through the property and disappears into thick woods beside a pasture where several horses graze and swat at f lies with their long stringy tails. A sleek chestnut one stomps a hoof on the ground, sending a shudder over his skin, knocking the f lies off all at once.
    Jay and I turn to Kate.
    â€œThis is the creek,” she says, looking at the map again. “But this isn’t park property. What if whoever lives here sees us, like, trespassing? I mean, I want to f ind Noah—but I really don’t want to get shot in the process.”
    â€œThen stay low as we walk up the creek,” Jay instructs her. “The banks will keep us hidden.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” she says. “I need someone to hold my hand.”
    So Jay grabs Kate’s hand and we make our way down into the creek, the shallow water churning a muddy brown beneath us. I don’t like this, either, but I know we have no other choice. After creeping quietly along for maybe twenty minutes, I start to get nervous. What if we get lost? What if we’re not really in the right place like Kate thinks? The banks get higher and higher the farther we go. Massive slabs of rock jut out of the earth; green moss and lichens crawl over damp surfaces. A few small waterfalls