27

The man stood over my friends, who stayed seated by the fire. I watched from the tent, my head poking out the flappy, zipper door. He turned on a flashlight and pointed it at them. The light shone brighter than high-beams on a car. I pulled my head back into the tent. It would be minutes, maybe seconds, before he'd find me. Who was this man? And where did his partner take Stinky Mike?

Boy, was I scared. I didn't know what to do. But I did know what not to do: stay in the tent. Crawling on my belly, I wiggled out the flappy door, across the grass and into the forest. Then, crouching just behind the tree line, I tiptoed toward the fire. I saw as I approached. The man was a police officer. In his non-flashlight hand, he was holding a bag of weed. The guys were in serious trouble.

Getting caught with weed was real bad, at least on our piece of the world. I wouldn't wish it on, well, Stinky Mike, for one. While young people were smoking more and more, old people were tolerating it less and less. To old people, weed was the same as every other drug, worse even, because it was so popular. To them, those who tried weed would inevitably try every other drug. So new laws—tough laws—were passed. If someone got caught with weed, it could mean a criminal record. It could even end up on your high school transcript for every university to see. Most everyone still smoked here and there, but the consequences hung on the back of our heads. Tonight—in the middle of the woods, of all places—we had just got caught.

Chris started talking to the officer. The officer starting shouting at Chris. Chris starting shouting back. Chris could be a real smartass sometimes. Emily tried to calm Chris down, but before she could, the officer made everyone get up. And then he marched them away like his partner had Stinky Mike. I stood behind the trees, watching as they disappeared into darkness. Both officers were gone. So were all my friends. I remained. Alone.

What was I to do? I stood stiff, scared and shocked. Where had they gone? How could I help? I stepped out of the woods, but only momentarily. One of the officers had returned. I stepped back behind the trees, and watched.

His flashlight glowing, the officer walked to the dying fire, and stamped it out. Then, he roamed the campsite, his gaze and the beam of his light wandering the grounds. Finally, he walked to my tent, and searched it. Had the guys told the officer about me? Should I reveal myself? Would I be in more trouble for hiding? The officer hadn't called my name. He hadn't caught me with weed—I was sleeping, after all. I decided to stay hidden. It was instinct more than anything.

The officer collapsed the tent, stuffing it, and my belongings, into a garbage bag. He walked around the perimeter of the forest, shining his flashlight through the trees. I lay down. When he came to me, the light passed over. Then he left the grounds and disappeared.

I waited a moment, anticipating his return, but he never came. The park was empty except me. I walked to the fire-pit. Smoke still lingered among the crushed ashes. It was dark. I could see the outline of beer bottles laying on the ground, and the area smelled of weed.

I walked to where my tent once was. My things were gone. My book, The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz, was also gone. What would Dmitri do if his friends were in trouble? He would find them. Then so would I. God knows what I'd do once I did. I ran to my bike, unlocked it, buckled my helmet to my chin, and started biking in the direction that my friends had gone.