If I had to pinpoint a single moment that things started to go downhill, that was it. Despite the copious horror movies I had seen, and bad cop-dramas, I didn't call 911 to let them know that a previously missing person had just done a bare-assed dash across my backyard. Looking back, I can say with confidence that had I stayed in my room and called the cops, nothing would have ended up the way it did.

But of course, I didn't.

At first, I'll forgive my stupidity because it didn't register. We all thought Antony was dead. That or kidnapped and taken far, far from Greenwich. Either way, no one was expecting to ever see him again. So I think I was just shocked when I leaned my head out the window and yelled down to him.

"Hey!"

He either didn't hear me or did and kept running anyway. Which made me think (let's say I'm still in shock at this point) that he had been hiding out for the past month (because the best way to remain incognito is to go streaking). So I took it upon myself to throw on some sneakers—sans socks—and zip up a sweatshirt before running into the kitchen, onto the deck, and down to the grass of my backyard. About the same time the cold autumn air hit me, so did the thought that maybe, just maybe, running in the dark after a naked guy might not be the smartest move I'd ever made.

It seemed pointless anyway. I'd lost sight of Antony during the time after I'd left my window and before I'd made it outside. And it was dark enough that I couldn't see where he'd made off to. He could have stayed straight and run through my neighbor's yard, or he could have veered into the narrow strip of farm land that was separated from my yard by one solitary row of trees that hadn't been thrown over for cornstalks when the rest of the forest had been cleared.

I looked back at the house. Should I go back and get a flashlight? A cell phone? For god's sake, some boxer-briefs? I checked the time on my plastic cartoon watch. Past one. I heard a rustle in some of the overgrown shrubs my mother had planted to maintain an illusion of privacy from the neighbors, who still had a frustrating tendency to shout over them, instead of pretending that they created an impermeable obstacle.

The rustle rustled again and I was sure I could see pale skin between the leaves. The rustling stopped and I waited for either a bunny or a naked missing person to spring from the bush's depths. Experience and campy horror films had taught me those were my only options. When nothing happened, I backed up to the shed, eyes still on the shrub, unlatched the door and grabbed a rake. I inched forward, rake held over my head gladiator-style. When I was in range, I took a deep breath and starting flailing madly with my improvised weapon.

Absolutely nothing but nothing came out of the bush except hundreds of murdered leaves. The rake hit the ground next to me. Was I absolutely sure I had seen Antony? I thought I had, but it was late and I was tired. It's possible I just imagined it. Or maybe it wasn't Antony. Was I absolutely certain that this was the same dark-haired, olive-skinned, kinda-cute missing teen from the posters? Maybe it was some other town's missing teen that decided to go for a jog at one in the morning in his permanent party suit?

I had half convinced myself that was true. The posters said Antony was pretty tall. The person I saw running through the yard seemed decently short. Yeah, good. Let's go with that. I turned back to the house and made for the stairs. It took me a second to register the guy standing on the first step, gripping the rails and preventing me from climbing up.

Antony.

And, oh god.

He was still naked.