a/n; thanks so much for all the kindly reviews! yes, short chapter is short, but I just wanted to get this out here to let you guys know I'm still alive.

If you google search "when someone goes missing" online, one of the things it suggests you do is get a record from the phone company of all the calls the person made, so you can see if they got into trouble of any kind. Ike must have had his phone on him when he disappeared, because it was gone and no amount of searching done by the police made it show up. Sheila, of course, retrieved the records fairly soon after he disappeared and there were no records for an abnormally long amount of time. In other words, Ike didn't call anyone for a few weeks. Which is pretty odd for an eleven year old kid.

"So, Mom gave up on that," Kyle explained as I stared slack-jawed. I should have stopped him, should have seen the false hope glowing in his eyes. I know now, of course, that Ike didn't make that call. But then I was silent, as I always was, completely worthless. "She turned to security cameras. But I figured phone records were useful, so I went back a few days ago to get a more updated list."

Kyle pulled from his pocket a scrappy piece of paper, folded and dirty. He held it like the holy grail, gingerly unfurling it so as not to tear it anymore and holding it out for me to see. It was a spreadsheet. At the top was BROFLOVSKI, IKE along with his service provider, phone number, and phone model. The spreadsheet was entirely empty boxes, except for one at the top.

1. DONAHUE, WI ; 00:00:59 ; 2:47 AM ; 2/20

So on the 20th of February his phone made a call.

Kyle took back the paper and hugged it to his chest like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. "I already checked the phonebook, there isn't a Donahue, Wi registered in South Park, but there is a Marcus Donahue, so I was thinking we-"

"It was a 59 second phone call," I repeated. Somewhere, the past me was finally making one good decision: stopping Kyle in his tracks. Hope was a dangerous thing, especially in situations like this. "If Ike still had his phone, then he would have called someone by now, right?"

"Yeah, so Ike probably didn't call anyone," Kyle said, yet his voice remained surprisingly optimistic. "But someone did. Someone who has Ike's phone, which means they may know something."

I cannot for the life of me remember the date Ike went missing. I'm momentarily shocked back to the present, hearing the steady boom of music above me, feeling the ground sticky beneath my palms.

"Kyle," I whisper. "What day did Ike go missing?"

There's no response for a little while, though I see Kyle's bloodshot eyes slide over to me. "February 2nd."

Okay, the 2nd.

Anyway, where was I? Kyle and I were holed up in my house on the three-week anniversary of Ike disappearing, and there was me being silent and worthless as usual and Kyle holding this holy piece of paper, practically glittering with hope. The call had been made on the 20th, 18 days after Ike went missing.

"Listen, Marcus Donahue lives just under four blocks away," continued Kyle, and his voice sounded as though he'd spent a lot of time thinking about it. "I would bring the police, but it's in Kenny's neighborhood, and you know how those people get around the police."

I could sense where this was going. Current me would have said no. Current me would have told Kyle to shut up and roll the dice because it was his turn and he was about to pass Go and collect $200, unless he rolled a four in which case he owed me 320 bucks, but past me was even more stupid and worthless then me now. I just sat there like I always did.

"I figure you and I could go talk to him," Kyle said. "Just, you know, before we involve the police. I just want to check it out."

"I dunno," I replied, at the time hesitant mostly because I didn't want to walk four blocks, not because I could have possibly guessed the implications. I should have said no. I would sell my soul to go back in time and tell him now. "That doesn't sound too great."

"Please, Stan," Kyle begged, and from the hope and pain in his eyes I sighed and nodded.

I hadn't thought about the implications, really. I'd thought Kyle had to heal in his own way on his own time, and I had to support him. I'd though, what harm could a neighborhood visit do?

"Thanks, Stan," Kyle smiled and zipped up his jacket. "I promise it'll only take a few minutes."

Famous last words.

I shouldn't have done it. But seeing hope in Kyle's eyes for the first time in so long, it just made me think that maybe...maybe Ike was out there, maybe this could help. I just wanted things to be the way they were before so desperately, I just wanted us to hang out again like three best friends and Cartman.

We headed out the door and Kyle took the lead, moving quickly. It was a companionable silence. I looked across the road and saw a single deer, this one a male with antlers, munching on a near-dead bush. I was reminded of the day Kenny and I watched the deer, and of all the times growing up I'd seen deer. It was funny how many of them were around here. I felt like I was seeing the world through new eyes, appreciating it more.

Of course, the beauty fell to ruin when we reached Kenny's side of town, the poor side. The sparse grass died away entirely, neatly trimmed lawns turned to abandoned car tires and nameless rubble. Clean windows and shiny doorknobs turned to boards and dilapidated lean-tos. As if it were possible, it even seemed colder over on this side. I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk until Kyle put out a hand and stopped me.

"This is it," Kyle told me. The house we'd stopped at was one story, cracked and entirely red brick. Of the four front windows, one was broken and boarded over and another showed no signs of ever even having a windowpane. The door was peeling and yellow, and a pile of cinderblocks was stacked by the door.

We wandered up to the door and Kyle knocked, papers in hand.

A woman opened the door. She was wearing what could maybe be called a shirt but is more commonly called a bra, and it was an unattractive shade of pink. I was expecting some kind of miniskirt, but to my relief she was wearing jeans. The girl herself had a rather short nose and heavy black eyeshadow with big tacky hoop earrings. She practically chewed on her cigarette and then puffed on Kyle and I's faces.

"Who're you?" She said nonchalantly, blowing cumulonimbus clouds into my nostrils.

"Um, my name is Kyle Broflovski," started Kyle, who had at first been put off by her appearance but wasn't missing a beat. "Three weeks ago my younger brother, Ike Broflovski, went missing. His phone records indicate that on February 20th he called a person with the last name Donahue and a first name beginning with Wi. Would you have anyone in your home who-"

"Stephen!" The woman screamed, dropping her still-lit cigarette on the doorstep where it lay among other cigarette butts. Then she stomped it out with her bare foot. "Brahlove ski wants to see you!"

The woman waved at us to enter and revealed a yellow carpet splattered with brown stains and dirt. A gray couch was in the corner, next to it was a coffee table littered with cigarettes and empty bottles.

"Um, this is the residence of Marcus Donahue, correct?" Kyle backtracked, looking around.

The woman laughed. "My husband? Naww, he's in jail."

"Oh," responded Kyle, peering into the kitchen. "Does anyone live here with you?"

"Why're y'all asking so many questions?" She licked her lips and lit up another cigarette. "STEPHEN!"

"My younger brother-" Kyle started, and then an angsty looking teenager tromped into the room.

"What?" The kid growled.

"Brahloveski is here again," she complained. "Don't look at me like that, Stephen this ain't my job!"

The woman huffed and left the room. Kyle's eyes glowed like embers, especially when she said again.

"You stupid whore!" Stephen called into the kitchen. "This isn't Ike! This is what I get for thinking she could handle the door this once, god."

"You know Ike?" Kyle asked with a mixture of hope and horror.

"What of it?" Stephen snarled. "Who are you?"

"I'm Ike's older brother-" began Kyle.

"Kyle," supplied Stephen.

"Y-Yeah," responded Kyle, slightly surprised. "When did you last see Ike?"

"God, I dunno," Stephen rubbed the back of his neck, elbow brushing against the eight links, coils, rings, and mechanical wonders that nested in his right ear. "Do you guys have any money?"

I was...upset? I don't really remember. The house was really disgusting, smelling of smoke and alcohol. The only thing I could think about was leaving, so I left all the talking to Kyle.

"...I have five bucks," offered Kyle, grinding his teeth. "But Ike could be in serious trouble and-"

"What about him?" Stephen jerked his head in my direction. "How much does he have?"

"A twenty," I told him. "But only if you tell us when you last spoke to Ike."

Stephen shrugged and Kyle took my twenty, begrudgingly handing Stephen the money.

"January 3rd," Stephen told us, folding up the bills and tucking him into his front shirt pocket. "Hung out with my little brother."

"Who's your younger brother?" Kyle persisted.

"Willy," Stephen yawned, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, half-brother, actually. My mom's dead, Jennifer is married to Dad now, they have Willy and Natasha."

Kyle's eyes lit up. "Can we talk to Willy?"

Stephen shrugged and then shuffled into the kitchen, gesturing to the wall.

Kyle crossed the living room and pulled at a brown door I'd failed to notice. So many stains and pockmarks littered the walls it blended right in.

The door ripped open with a shriek and a puff of cold hair hit my face. I walked over, peering out into their backyard over Kyle's shoulder. Tufts of yellowing grass grew here and there. A discarded tricycle lay on it's side, wheels missing.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Willy Donahue was sprawled out across the dirt, hands behind his head. It seemed he was sunbathing, but he was in the shade under a yellow striped umbrella. A dirty white t-shirt was stretched across his figure, his jeans were ripped to ribbons, and a fitted cap snugly nestled around his head, tufts of dirty brown hair poking out.

"My name is Kyle Broflovski-"

"Oh," choked Willy, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He stirred up large clouds of dust when he moved. "I didn't give it to him, honest Kyle, he came and asked-"

"Gave him what?"

Willy blinked up at Kyle. "What you here for?"

"Ike's been missing for three weeks," Kyle told him. "Since February 2nd."

"Ah, I haven't seen him," relaxed Willy, letting out a sigh and falling back onto the dirt. "Not since January."

"What was Ike doing at your house?" Kyle asked desperately.

"He wanted some pot," Willy said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather.

For a few seconds, Kyle and I froze. I remember being genuinely shocked at this point - Ike? A stoner? It didn't add up. Ike had always done so well in school, been so quiet, so well-behaved...

Kyle leapt forward and grabbed the neck of Willy's shirt, jerking him forward and spraying dirt everywhere. Willy's eyes flashed in terror under his cap. Had the nature of the situation been different I would have noticed what a jerk the kid was, acting cool and shoving swear words every other sentence. Sad, really, that he was being raised in such an environment.

"What the fuck man?" Willy's fist connected with Kyle's jaw, but he was much too young and Kyle brought his leg up with surprising force, his knee connecting with Willy's groin and making the boy scream in pain, then collapse on the floor.

Stupid, spineless me observed, mouth agape. "K-Kyle! What are you doing?"

"You filthy little gutter rat," snarled Kyle. "Getting my little brother hooked on drugs! Ike would never! How DARE you!"

Tears sprang into Willy's eyes, he curled inward and brought his hands over his eyes, moaning.

"It's his fault Ike's gone, Stan!" Even Kyle's eyes were shining with tears now, and his left foot connected solidly with Willy's ribs, inducing a resounding sickening crack. Willy howled in pain and Kyle froze, stepping back. "Everyone knows what happens when you get involved with drug dealers!"

"Kyle, what the hell did you just do?" I looked from Kyle to the little boy, not 15 years old, crying in the dirt and the dust. Dealer or no, Kyle had just beaten down a kid.

"Willy!" The house's window swung open, and from it Jennifer Donahue spat out her cigarette and stared at her son's form. "Oh my Lord, Willy!"

"We have to get out of here," I told Kyle, who was frozen to the spot. I grabbed his arm and turned, plowing into the rotting wood of the back fence. It gave way easily, but that wasn't the worst part. Thick, heavy bushes grew on the outside, and weed-choked trees grew close together. I plunged in, ignoring the sting of thorns on my calves and shins, my immediate goal being to get Kyle out of here.

Suddenly, the trees were gone. The ground was replaced with a dirt road lined with lumber, a few yards along was a makeshift basketball court where six or seven kids were playing. I bolted down the other way, dragging the limping Kyle along behind me. I ignored the tiny, stifled sobs as he slunk along behind me. Lumber turned to broken down houses, unfamiliar ghetto and cracked pavement.

I abruptly turned right and dropped Kyle on the lid of a dumpster, myself sitting on cinderblock across the way. We'd taken shelter in a narrow alleyway between two houses, barely enough for the two of us to sit. The whole thing had happened remarkably fast, neither Willy nor Jennifer had given pursuit.

Busting out of a kid's backyard had only been the beginning.

"Would you mind telling me," I panted. "What that was back there?"

Kyle leaned back, eyes closed. Blood dripped down from a scratch above his eye, and his legs looked just as torn up as mine. "I..."

There was a very long pause while we both sat in silence, brooding and bleeding.

"I don't even know, man," Kyle choked. "I just...Ike is...I guess now that he's gone, I just...I couldn't control myself. There are so many things I should have done, Stan. But I can still...I can still do them, I just...I just need Ike, Stan. Ike would never buy pot. That kid Willy was lying, I just know it, and in that moment I just couldn't stop it, Stan. I was projecting that onto Willy...I beat up a fourteen year old kid...oh God, I'm going to get arrested..."

Kyle was 17, he couldn't be arrested legally. And anyway, this was a bad neighborhood. That happened all the time. But I kept my mouth shut, instead watching Kyle rub his temples and exhale, heavily. He deserved to spend a minute or two wallowing in what he'd done.

"Listen, man, no way somebody who deals marijuana is going to call the police on us," I put a hand on his shoulder, frightened a little by the terrified and crazed look in his eyes.

"Oh god, Stan," Kyle curled up even tighter, eyes glistening with tears he was not going to cry. I wasn't either, so we sat in silence until both of us could swallow the lumps in our throats and get up. He was limping, but when I offered to help he shoved me off and stumbled the wrong way down the street.

"Uh, Kyle, we should-"

"I don't want to walk past his house," Kyle said through gritted teeth, and I didn't push the matter.

The two of us weaved our way deeper into the labyrinth of broken architecture.