The Inn Between by Marina Cohen

He was okay—but it was deep. I tried to get him to reach my hand so I could pull him up, but I slid off the edge and then we were both stuck.”
    Kara gasped. “What did you do? How did you get here?”
    â€œAt first we tried screaming. We screamed until our voices were hoarse. But there was no one around to hear. We were down there forever. Adam cried a lot. He was hungry and thirsty and scared. I told him everything would be okay. Someone would find us. Only no one did.”
    â€œHow did you get out?” said Quinn.
    â€œI don’t know. At first, it felt like I was falling asleep. I closed my eyes—just for a moment—and when I opened them, I had this weird burst of strength. Somehow I scaled the wall. I got out and yelled down to Adam. I promised him that I would get help.”
    Quinn put an arm around his shoulder.
    â€œI wandered around for a long time. Then I saw this light, in the distance. I headed for it and this is where I ended up.”
    Joe stared at Kara, then at Quinn, his eyes filling with tears. “It’s my fault Adam is out there.”

 
    17
    M ONTHS HAVE PASSED. The police have called off the active search. Emma is now becoming what they call a cold case. The principal of Quinn’s school suggests they hold a memorial—a vigil—that evening for Emma outside the school.
    Quinn lies stretched across her bed staring at the other half of the room—the half that has not been disturbed for months. In her mind, she paints a still-life watercolor. She calls it Emma’s Stuff.
    The dusty rose bedspread is bent back on itself. A wrapper from a chocolate bar Emma has eaten lies crumpled on her nightstand. Beside it lies a book— Anne of Avonlea. Emma loves to read. Her favorite author is currently Lucy Maud Montgomery, though it changes each time she starts a new book. On the shelf beside her bed are all the novels she’s read. On top sits her stack of “To Be Reads.”
    Quinn has no such stack. She hates reading. She’d much rather ski or skateboard or ride her bike.
    A purple pajama sleeve pokes out from under Emma’s pillow. It dangles over the edge of the bed. Quinn thinks the pajamas make Emma look like a giant purple popsicle. She tells Emma this each time she wears them, but Emma just shrugs and laughs.
    Along the side of the wall hang framed collages that Emma has made from photos. Clipped photos of Quinn and their parents and of the fish, Scales, Emma once had. Of school and friends and teams and dance recitals. Of vacations and birthday cakes and holidays. Quinn tried to make a collage of photos once, too. She gave up after cutting out three pictures.
    The closet door is wide open. Clothes Quinn once wore that have passed to Emma now hang gathering dust. Quinn tries hard to picture Emma wearing each and every one. But it’s difficult. Exactly how tall was Emma? Where did her hair last reach? Quinn panics. How long will it be before Emma’s face gathers dust and fades into the gray closet of Quinn’s memory?
    She begins twisting the ends of her hair. Emma always did that. She’d snuggle up to Quinn whenever she could, reach over, and start twisting her hair. Quinn would push Emma’s hand away, but it always found its way back to Quinn.
    Quinn’s mother enters the room. She stretches across Quinn’s bed and stares at the still life along with Quinn.
    â€œI-I’m sorry,” says Quinn quietly. She’s cried a billion tears. She can’t cry anymore. “It’s my fault.”
    â€œDon’t say that,” says her mother, putting an arm around her shoulder. “No one blames you.”
    Quinn swallows hard. She wants to tell her mother everything—about what really happened that day after school. She stands and opens her mouth. She tries. But the words are too heavy. So heavy she can’t lift them and force them out of her mouth. She stares at her mother with eyes