I wake up at five to a note shoved under my door. The writing is messy and slanting, ink smeared by a lazy hand.
Marlene-
The girl left like you said, and she's still gone. You said to tell you if she didn't come back, but I'm off duty now. It's around three. Told the next shift to write you a note if anything changed.
That was fine. Riley still had two hours to get back. I read over old letters and wait.
At five thirty, I have breakfast and watch out the windows. She still has an hour and a half to get here.
At six, I make the trip to Riley's room, to make sure she didn't sneak back unnoticed. He bed's neatly made, her clothing folded into a duffle bag. Surely she would have brought her clothing if she were planning on staying gone. She'd be back. She had an hour.
At six thirty, I'm back in my office, watching the door. It's pathetic. What do I care about one irresponsible teenager showing up late?
I remind myself that she's not late yet. She still has half an hour.
At seven, I tell the man on watch to alert me if he sees a teenage girl, and I go back to sleep.
At seven fifteen, I admit that I can't sleep and pace, pace, pace around my room, wondering why I trusted someone so obviously headstrong, wondering why I care so much. Fireflies disappear every day, most without anyone to remember that they ever lived, without a so much as an unmarked grave.
At eight in the morning, I call in a favour with a contact at the boarding school to ask if they've seen anything.
At nine, the boarding school contact tells me that one of their students has gone missing too, that she left all her clothing behind, that no one had seen her since the previous day, that she had a history of disappearing, of making trouble with a girl called Riley.
At ten, I try and put the issue out of my mind. If Riley's run away, then she's run away. If she's coming back, she'll come back when she wants to and no sooner.
At eleven in the morning, I pace around the facility and ask if anyone has seen Riley, if anyone knows where she is. A few people saw her leave, but no one's seen her come back. I catch a few people giving me funny looks, but they all shrink back when I meet their eyes.
At eleven thirty, I go back to her room and look for clues as to why she's still gone.
At twelve, I find a wad of crumpled paper shoved under her bed.
Feeling pathetic for letting this bizarre concern spiral so far out of control, I toss the note on the ground and turn to leave.
At twelve fourteen, I still haven't left the girl's room. I give in to temptation.
The paper's been crumpled so much it's soft at the edges, worn. The ink's smudged, and more words have been crossed out then written.
"Dear Ellie,
I didn't mean anything I said before. I joined the Fireflies and they're making me move to another city but I'll write you if"
The next few lines are scribbled out.
"I'm really sorry I was a jerk. I'm gonna miss you."
The ink here is smeared, like something got it wet, but it's only unreadable because Riley had scribbled through the lines, pressing hard enough to tear the paper.
"I never told you how I really feel and I was going to but last-minute confessions are way to sappy for me and"
The rest of the letter is scribbled out in another colour of ink, and at the bottom of the page Riley's written
"Go and tell her yourself, you coward." In a wide, messy hand. She'd pressed too hard with the pen here, and the paper's bumpy and torn where the nib pushed through.
At twelve thirty, I straighten and remind myself that I'm too old to care this much about one girl, that I've seen too much to be fussed about the disappearance of another Firefly.
I put the letter back where I found it and do my job. From what I've seen she intended to come back, and I'm not going to worry about something I can't change.
At eleven at night I tell the man on watch to tell me if Riley returns, and I go to sleep.
Maybe she needed an extra day. She'll be back tomorrow, if she's coming back.