The Missing Person by Alix Ohlin Page A

Lynn.”
    â€œStan,” said the wide receiver. “This is Berto.”
    â€œYo,” said Berto.
    Stan set a backpack down on the floor and pulled out a plastic bag. “Supplies,” he said.
    These turned out to be peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off, which Stan offered around in a cursory manner before he and Berto devoured them. Aside from Psyche, Sledge, and me, everyone was huddled around the diagram, nodding.
    â€œGerald says earliest tee-off is ten-fifteen,” Berto said. “Get it?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI still think we need to have a name,” Berto said. “I was talking about this to some other people at the meeting, and they agreed with me.”
    â€œGo work with them, then,” Stan said, and when Berto scowled at him, he scowled back. “The name doesn’t matter.”
    â€œCan’t claim responsibility if we don’t got a name.”
    â€œWe don’t need to claim responsibility.”
    â€œThey’ll think it’s just a bunch of fucking kids.”
    â€œMaybe we are a bunch of fucking kids,” Angus said.
    â€œThat’s bullshit,” Berto said angrily. “And not all of us are kids, man.” He reached into the bag and took another sandwich, shaking his head.
    â€œNo name, no claims,” Angus said decisively. “Nothing matters but the action itself.”
    â€œWhat about, like, Citizens for Environmental Action? CEA,” Berto mused, waving his sandwich in the air.
    â€œBerto, let the name go.”
    â€œYou’re right, it’s kind of bland. Okay, what about Earth Now? Kind of like Earth First, but different.”
    â€œTell me what you guys are planning,” I said.
    â€œExcuse us,” Angus said. He stood up and pulled me by the elbow into the kitchen. My back was against the fridge, and his face loomed close to mine: his red hair, his pale skin, all those freckles. “Do you understand that I’m doing you a favor?” he whispered.
    â€œNo,” I whispered back.
    â€œWylie will be here, okay? He’ll be with us tonight. So just tag along with the crowd.”
    â€œI’m more of a loner, generally speaking.”
    â€œTry,” he said.
    He bent down and kissed me then, gentle and unhurried, for a period of several minutes. I put up zero resistance. For some reason, the word “consent” rose over and over in the back of my mind, but I saw it as more substance than word: something liquid pouring over me, hot and wet, capillaries opened, skin flushed. Behind my eyelids the world turned red.
    Afterwards, the group went on making their plans, although they apparently were keeping them vague in my presence. I was still curious but didn’t ask any questions. The sandwiches finished, Berto went into the kitchen and rinsed out the plastic bag, then hung it up to dry. Looking around, I counted the sleeping bags rolled against the walls—four, including the one on the cot—and realized they were all living here. Beyond the occasional backpack and Irina’s baby supplies, none of them had any belongings to speak of. It was bizarre and impressive at the same time. Most people know that we shouldn’t live as wastefully as we do, but could never change their lives as drastically as these guys had. Irina was right: they were living differently.
    I cleared a space on the counter and listened. Berto continued to obsess over names and was repeatedly, uselessly shushed. Irina sang low-voiced songs to her baby and nodded in agreement, though rarely was it clear about what. In the dark room—most of the light came through the bedroom blinds I’d opened—time stretched itself out, slowly.
    Stan and Angus were talking about water: the dearth of it around the globe, our reckless overindulgence in it as consumers, its diversion by financial interests. The government encouraged individual citizens to reduce their