Excerpt from I Hope You’re Listening

1.

Transcript of RADIO SILENT Episode 41

A seventeen-year-old vanishes into thin air. His family and friends have no idea where he might have gone. He leaves behind no trace, no clues.

Or does he?

Almost a million people are reported missing across North America every year. If we pay attention, if we work together, maybe we can bring some of them home.

I am the Seeker, and this is Radio Silent.

2.

TEN YEARS AGO

Dee feels like she’s been waiting outside Sibby’s house for­ ever. She doesn’t want to knock on the door, because then she’ll have to talk to Sibby’s mom and explain what they’re doing, and she’ll make them take Sibby’s little sister, Greta, along with them. Greta is cute, but she can be kind of annoy­ing, always asking questions and being slow. Besides, Dee and Sibby almost never get to play together anymore, just the two of them, and it won’t be the same if they have a little kid tagging along.

Dee isn’t too worried because she knows that Sibby will have a plan. Sibby always has a plan. While she waits, Dee sits on the edge of the porch and swings her legs back and forth, admiring her new boots. They look like her dad’s boots, just a lot smaller. They’re brown leather, the color of chocolate, with bright red laces that catch onto little hooks, instead of threading through holes. They’re warm, but not too warm— perfect for adventures.

The front door creaks open, and Sibby’s head pokes out. She grins and holds a finger to her lips. Shhhh. She disappears back inside, and Dee sits and waits, trying to be completely silent. A few seconds later, the door opens again, and Sibby tip­ toes out. Her boots are on, and she’s got one arm inside her coat.

She struggles into the other arm, then leans back inside the house and yells, “I’m going outside to play with Dee!” She stays there, waiting, and then Dee hears Mrs. Carmichael’s voice, distant and muffled. Annoyed? Dee can’t tell.

“We won’t be long!” Sibby replies, and then she reaches in and pulls the door firmly closed, careful not to slam it.

“Let’s go quick,” she says, and Dee can tell from the way she says it that there’s no time to waste. She hops down from the edge of the porch onto the ground. It’s only a couple of feet up, but she knows that the boots help her. She can feel them grip the ground when she lands.

Giggling, the girls run to the sidewalk and turn down the street. When they make it to the maple tree at the end of the block, they both know they’re out of view of Sibby’s house.

“I think we’re okay,” says Sibby, laughing, catching her breath. “Greta made a big mess at lunchtime, and Mom had to clean her up. It was a good time to escape.”

She grins at Dee, and Dee grins back. Sibby always knows how to make things work out. “So what are we going to do?” Dee asks.

“We’re going to the fort,” says Sibby, as if Dee is nuts for even asking.

“Without Burke and everyone else?” Dee asks. She knew that Sibby would want to go to the fort, but she feels a bit uneasy. The woods are fun when there are a bunch of them playing there. But they’re also dark and a bit scary.

“Just because Burke’s uncle built the fort, that doesn’t mean Burke owns it,” Sibby says, as if Dee should know this. “Besides, the woods belong to everyone, and it will be fun to play there by ourselves without everybody else taking up space. Burke’s sisters are annoying. They’re so bossy.”

Dee thinks it’s funny that Sibby would call someone else bossy, but she knows better than to point that out. She also doesn’t bother mentioning that Mara and Alicia have only come to the fort once, right after their uncle Terry built it, and that time it was just to see it. They’re older and not into play­ ing outside the way they used to. Anyway, it’s true that there are usually a bunch of people at the fort, but today Greta is out of the picture, Burke and his sisters are in the city to watch a movie, and the twins—Dee’s brothers—are at hockey practice.

Sibby’s right. Today they’ll have the fort to themselves, and who knows when that will happen again?

“Okay,” says Dee. “Let’s go.”

They cross the street and walk two doors down to Dee’s house, then to Mrs. Rose’s house, because the easiest way to get into the woods is through her backyard. Mrs. Rose doesn’t mind. She likes all the kids on their street. She’s like a grandma, even though Dee knows she doesn’t have any grandchildren of her own.

It’s the end of March and still chilly enough for a coat and mittens, but there’s a bit of warmth in the breeze, and as Dee follows Sibby through Mrs. Rose’s backyard, she notices little points of crocuses poking from the ground and tiny green buds on the shrubs and trees, and she knows that spring is almost here.

At the back of Mrs. Rose’s garden is a hedge that backs almost all the way up onto the forest. There’s a gap they can step through, and soon they’re in the narrow strip of grass that separates the neighborhood lots from the trees.

A cloud passes over the sun just as a breeze picks up, and Dee feels a chill run down her spine.

“Let’s go!” says Sibby, several steps ahead of Dee.

Under the shadow of the cloud, the woods look cold and dark and ominous. Dee wants to tell Sibby that they should just go over to Dee’s house and watch a movie or play a game. But she knows it’s no use; Sibby has made up her mind.

Besides, it will be fun. Sibby’s ideas always end up being fun.

Sibby turns and walks into the trees. A moment later, Dee follows.

3.

What happened to Sibby Carmichael that afternoon in the woods?

If anyone should remember, it’s me. I was there, after all. But ten years and a million sleepless nights later, nothing new comes to me. No sudden revelations, no deeply buried mem­ories emerging from a haze. Just the same few fragments, still crisp and clear in my mind, still as useless as they’ve always been.

It’s the middle of the night, and I lie in my bed, awake in a sleeping world, a broken record skipping inside of me. The same lines skimming past again and again and again.

You could have tried to stop it.

Forget that I was only seven. Forget that nobody, not even Sibby’s parents, blamed me—a terrified little girl—not for a moment. None of that matters when the record starts skipping.

You could have paid attention, noticed something useful, helped them find her.

Over the years, I’ve heard lots of stories about incredible kids, kids who beat the odds. A girl who survived on a raft for days after her whole family was murdered on a sailboat far out at sea. A boy who protected his younger siblings from a cougar by fending it off with a stick. Three small children who climbed into a tree and waited out a tsunami, somehow managing to hang on while the only world they’d ever known rushed by, a chaos of water and destruction.

Why couldn’t I have been one of those kids? Why couldn’t I have dug deep, found strength, risen to the occasion?

You could have saved Sibby.
You could have saved Sibby.
You could have saved Sibby.

Enough. I force myself to sit up. My shoulders slide out from underneath the pile of blankets, and the shock of crisp, cool air is good. It clears my vision and braces me enough to stand and get out of bed.

I slide into my slippers and grab a blanket from the pile, pulling it up around my shoulders. Our house is old, big, and drafty. It costs a fortune to heat, as my parents never fail to remind me, so the thermostat is always down low. Because my room is up at the very top, hidden under the eaves in the attic, it’s the coldest room of all, but that’s a small price to pay for the privacy, not to mention the view.

My desk sits in the gable at the front of the house, facing a large half­moon window that looks down over the town. I drop into the desk chair, yawning and pulling the blanket tight around me.

Far in the distance, I see lights skimming past us on the highway, a rushing river of cars and trucks and buses that could easily sweep someone away, in any direction, in the blink of an eye. On just this side of the highway is the forest, a huge stretch of spruce and pine, some bare hardwoods clustered together, thin patches in the blanket of green.

The woods butt up against a subdivision much younger than this neighborhood, full of split­levels and bungalows from the seventies. My old street runs parallel to the line of trees, and my old house still sits there, tucked in for the night like every other house in town.

From here, my childhood home looks tiny, vulnerable, just a small brick bungalow crouched in the shadow of the massive spread of forest behind it. It looks like the woods are about to swallow it up, drag it away, never to be seen again.

I like the house we live in now, in the middle of town, far from the woods. I like my room, the way it floats up here, high above the world.

I like that it would take someone a lot of effort to get up here. To find me.

I glance behind me at the door that opens to steps that lead down to a hallway lined with more doors: my parents’ room, my brothers’ room, the bathroom, the study. Then more stairs, almost every step harboring a telltale creak, alarms woven into the house’s very sinews.

At the bottom of the stairs is a foyer, where an interior door—paned with stained glass, locked and bolted—leads out to a porch and a heavy exterior door, solid as lead, also locked.

There are neighbors to either side of us, more neighbors across the street. All around us are windows and eyeballs. Security.

A noise catches my attention, and I turn back to my window, leaning forward across the desk so I can see right down to the street. The cute little yellow house directly across from us has been empty for over a year, since old Mrs. Dunlop passed away. I’ve grown used to the FOR SALE sign stuck into the lawn, but now I see that a U­Haul has pulled up outside.

The truck is still running, exhaust billowing from the tail­ pipe, taillights glowing red in the night, but as I watch, it shuts off, shuddering for a moment before slumping to sleep. The driver’s side door opens and a man steps out, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. A moment later, a woman steps around from the passenger side of the truck and joins him on the sidewalk.

They stand looking at the Dunlop house, and then turn together to watch as a very old car pulls up and comes to a stop behind the U­Haul. It’s pale blue, with wide tires and two wide silver stripes running the length of the hood. The door opens, and a girl steps out. She doesn’t close the door, but stands behind it instead, leaning forward to rest her elbows on its upper edge and stare across at the house, like she’s standing behind a shield.

The man and woman walk over to talk to the girl. As they talk, they gesture toward the U­Haul. They seem to agree on something, and the man and woman move back to the truck and start digging into the cab, pulling out bags.

When I shift my gaze back to the girl she’s staring right up at me.

I jerk back from the window, startled, before I remember with a wave of relief that I’m standing in a dark room. She can’t see me.

I keep to the edge of the window and watch her head move as she runs her gaze around our house. I realize that she’s checking out the veranda, the gingerbread trim, the turret. Shabby, drafty, and unfinished as it might be, ours is the most dramatic house on the street, and she’s looking at it, not me.

But I’m looking at her. I can’t help it. She’s slight—not much shorter than me, but more compact. Her black hair is cut into an irregular bob, and her glasses have thick, dark frames. She’s wearing jeans, leather boots, and a dark olive­ green winter coat with a wide white band across the chest. It’s obviously vintage and looks to be from the same era as the car.

She reaches inside her car and grabs a backpack, then slams the door shut and joins her parents, who are standing on the sidewalk with their own bags, waiting for her. Her father puts an arm over her shoulder, and together, the three of them walk up the narrow path and into the house.

I glance at the clock. It’s just past 3:00 a.m.

I drop into my desk chair, pulling the blanket around me, then I open my laptop.

Except for the late arrivals across the street, everyone is asleep. My family. My neighbors. The town around me.

I open my bottom desk drawer and pull out a small USB microphone on a stand. I plug it into the side of the laptop, then reach across the desk for my headphones and pull them on.

Somewhere, right now, somebody is disappearing.

I click on the icon for my audio recording program, and once it’s loaded, I tap on the mic with my finger.

I press [record].

It’s time to get to work.