Untraceable

Survival Skill #3

 Understanding all aspects of the terrain is critical to successful hiking.

~

“Come on, Grace. We keep having the same conversation over and over.” Captain Carl Stevens readjusts his police baseball cap and pops two huge pieces of bubble gum into his mouth. As his tongue wrestles the sticky wad, he eyes me warily.

“But you can’t close Dad’s case. Not yet.” I clear my throat, hoping to shake loose the sticky words. “He’s still alive. I can feel it.” I shift in the wooden seat, not from nerves, but because my butt’s numb from sitting too long.

Obviously, Carl didn’t hear me ask, do you have a minute? because he’s been lecturing me for exactly fifty-three.

Carl sighs. We’ve been at this a while. “Look, I know you’re upset, but it’s not up to me anymore. Your daddy was a wildlife officer, so it’s the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service’s call. They’re always by the book. To them, it’s been over three months, and they want this thing wrapped up.”

Wrapped up or thrown away? My hands tremble as I display the plastic bag housing my newly found evidence. “I found something today. Something big.”

Carl frowns and grips the corners of the plastic Ziploc. “Dang it, Grace. I told you not to touch anything out there.” He wrinkles his nose and peers into the bag like it’s a dirty fish bowl.

I cross my fingers behind my back and watch him inspect the snack bag, half expecting one of his unlimited professional opinions.

I can’t help but wonder how many he has left to go.

Carl scoffs. “In my professional opinion, this doesn’t mean a thing.”

I point to it. “It’s a Cheetos bag.”

“I see that.” He rolls his thin shoulders, triggering the familiar cracking sound of a wrecked collarbone. “But we don’t know how long it’s been out there. Let alone who it belongs to.”

My shoulders sag forward as an invisible force pushes down on my back. My small well of hope drains a little, and I try to mask the frustration scratching at my vocal chords. “But Dad loves Cheetos.”

Carl shakes his head and smacks a bubble. “So does Chester Cheetah. Along with half of America, I might add.”

I ignore his bad joke. “Yeah, but he always carried them when he patrolled. Bags of them. This is his. I’m sure of it.”

Carl removes his hat again and brushes one hand over his spiky blonde hair. “Listen, Grace, I saw the bark with sap—that you thought was blood—and the empty toilet paper roll you found a few weeks before that. Nothing came of those items either. This is what we like to call litter.”

I twist the silver ring on my middle finger. “That far out? Who goes out there to snack and leaves no other tracks? I spent ten hours looking in that area and didn’t see anyone or even a sign that someone has been out there.”

Carl reaches over to pat my hand. “Grace, do you hear yourself? You spent almost half a day in the remote woods, by yourself, and this is all you have to show for it.” He holds up the crumpled bag. “Only thing this proves it that the person eating it is pretty cheesy.” He smirks at his bad joke.

My frown doesn’t crack. Though in any other circumstance, I might have laughed. “I covered twenty acres. No other signs of anyone but this. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

He sighs. “Twenty acres? If I’m not mistaken, the Great Smoky Mountain National Park is over 500,000 acres. At this rate—”

Carl whips out his ancient desk calculator and punches on the square keys. He turns it to face me, displaying large block numbers that I could probably see from 1.2 miles away.