Back to Me (Book Three ✓)

thirty-eight

"Okay, I get it." Zoey's voice is rushed as she points a finger out the window. "The playground is over there. We can park in that lot and still see clearly..."

I do as she says and we're quiet for a few moments. I stare ahead at the old brick building, faded from years in the sun. An exit sign leads into a large paved area, patterned with chalk drawings and a map of the United States.

The playground is closer to us, enclosed by high chain-link fence, kept closed with a large padlock.

No kids in sight.

"You said just before three in the afternoon." I mutter.

Zoey is flattening the printed photo of Max against her thigh, running her fingers along its edges again and again.

"That's when they have snack. The school weekend-watching program has playtime at ten past."

Why does she know all of this?

"Weekend-watching program? Parents keep their kids at school on the weekends?" I wonder out loud.

"Some do." Zoey replies sadly. "They have volunteers basically babysit the kids that need it, like a babysitting carpool. His parents work weekend shifts so they use it a lot."

Again... why does she know all of this?

"So if they play at ten past, why are we here now?" I grunt.

"I didn't want to miss it."

I narrow my eyes at her, her stare glued to the exit, her fingers still working the worn edges of the photograph.

I resume staring out the window, happy for the quiet, when Zoey speaks again.

"How's Emma doing?"

I roll my eyes to the ceiling. "Fine."

"I mean, with the pregnancy?" Zoey peers at me with intense curiosity.

Suspicious of her interest, I repeat, "Fine."

"Let's hope you're more talkative with her or-"

"How about some music?" I interrupt, turning the dial up so I can't hear the rest of her sentence.

Ten minutes pass, eighties rock keeping her silent for now. Then fifteen minutes, twenty, pass.

Finally, a group of children bursts from the door, screaming and skipping, laughing and playing, followed by a couple of adult chaperones holding clipboards and whistles.

"There they are," Zoey breathes, inching forward in her seat, her palms resting on my dashboard. "Can you see him?"

Too preoccupied analyzing her reaction, I miss the question.

"Beau, do you see him?" Her voice sounds more frantic, the photo crinkling in her fist. "Do you see Max?"

Blinking back to reality, I scan the lot, searching each individual, chubby, snack stained face. No Max.

Not if he's the boy in that photo.

Likely realizing the same thing, Zoey's face falls, her eyes round as she continues looking, her voice soft. "Beau?"

"I don't see him." I say finally, watching her expression.

"He has to be here," She shakes her head, staring back at the picture like it will magically change. "He's always here on the weekends. He-"

"He's not here, Zoey." I repeat, watching each word sink in.

"No, that can't be." Zoey chuckles humorlessly. "He has a perfect attendance record in school. He only misses the week before Christmas break, when they take him to visit his grandparents in Colorado. They always use the weekend program, always. He's always here."