ADRIAN SMILED at the barista as he picked up his third cup of taro boba from the counter. He slid two crisp one dollar bills into the tip jar and plodded back to his table near the window. He stabbed the yellow straw into the lid—purposefully off-center. Everything was purposeful with him, his life carefully curated. He could never get it exactly in the middle, anyway. It looked better to have it wildly off-center. Even the yellow straw and purple drink were purposeful. Complimentary colors. They'd catch the eye. Make you click on his feed.

Adrian Moreau was no amateur.

He snapped some photos of his drink on the roughhewn wooden table. In the background, the snowy city streets twinkled beneath the fairy lights strung around the window. Adrian picked his favorite, filtered it, and posted it to his Instagram story.

Only then, when he had properly immortalized it, did he allow himself a drink. Sipping from the yellow straw out of the corner of his mouth, he pulled his black hoodie with the sprawling, red logo from a metal band he didn't listen to up on top of his head and sulked down inside it.

His eyes flicked up to the window as his phone lit up with Instagram notifications.

He scanned the crowd for Mila, but she wasn't there. His chest fell.

She was an hour late.

He was already on his third cup of boba.

He looked down at his phone. Someone had DM'd him responding to his innocent boba post: I wanna suck your balls. To top it all off, they'd punctuated it with the drooling emoji, the eggplant emoji, and the sweat drops emoji. Adrian had accidentally opened it. His cheeks reddened; then he almost laughed. If only they knew. He quickly deleted the chat, blocked the creep, and opened his messages app.

Nothing from Mila.

He huffed and chewed a tapioca pearl.

ADRIAN

[ where r u? ]

No reply.

He arched an eyebrow. On the outside, he looked annoyed. But inside he asked himself: Do I mean that little to her, that she would be so late without even sending me a text?

Whatever, he told himself. He shut his phone off and tossed it across the table. I don't even care anymore. He tried to enjoy his boba. Who needs girls when you have boba?

His phone buzzed.

He jumped for it, nearly spilling his tea in the process. But no—it was just one of his friends asking if the boba place had finally sponsored him. It hadn't. He was just a slut for boba and wanted everyone to know the best boba place in the city.

He groaned and sunk into his chair.

***

MALACHI LEANED AGAINST the green fence around the subway station's entrance. He was almost sitting on it. Almost. The spikes on top prevented that behavior, unless you were kinky, and Malachi was not.

Shivering, he pulled his coat tighter around him, his skateboard kicked up beside him. His breath formed clouds in front of his lips. The snow fell in heavy white clumps that stuck to his clothes and the pavement. The tips of his fingers, uncovered by his gloves, had gone numb. Above him, the sky darkened, but the city streets were still brightly lit.

His phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and slid it open.

Yes, literally slid.

In the year of our lord and savior 2021, this boy had a slide phone. By. Choice.

He didn't trust smartphones. He didn't trust most technology. He barely even trusted his slide phone, but it was better than the alternative, and a phone was a necessity anymore. He'd had it for about five or six years at this point. It had a crack in the screen from where he'd fallen on his butt with it in his pocket while skateboarding, but it still worked fine.

BECCA

[ have u seen mila?? ]

No, Malachi had not seen Mila. Not since they'd headed back to campus earlier that morning. They'd agreed to meet here before they headed back to Auntie Isabel's for Danish rolls. She was—he glanced at the time on his phone—fourteen minutes late.

But Mila was terminally late. Fourteen minutes was chump change to her. And Becca, Mila's roommate, worried chronically. If someone hadn't responded to her texts in five minutes, she'd panic, assuming they'd been kidnapped, or were being held hostage, or had dropped dead in a sewer somewhere.

MALACHI

[ no why ]

His phone in his hand and his head down, Malachi stepped down into the subway station. If Mila was MIA, he didn't want to wait on her out in the cold. At least it was a little warmer in the station. As he skidded down the steps, his phone buzzed again. Repeatedly.

BECCA

[ i haven't seen her since she left this morning ]

[ adrian just texted ]

[ apparently she didn't show up for their date and isn't responding to his texts ]

[ he thought she stood him up but she's not responding to any of mine either ]

[ have u heard from her??? ]

Malachi lingered on the landing. This wasn't out of character for Mila. She'd ghosted Adrian without warning a time or two before. She'd even ghosted Becca and Malachi when she was mad at them.

MALACHI

[ not since this morning but im sure shes fine, u know mila ]

BECCA

[ fair enough ]

[ if we don't hear from her by tonight, THEN i'll worry ]

Malachi jumped down the last steps and leaned against the side of the stairwell. He clicked on Mila's contact and typed...

MALACHI

[ mila!! ]

[ where r u ]

[ i went down into the station i got cold waiting on u ]

He shifted his feet as he waited, watching the passerby flit around him. A dad instructed his two kids to climb beneath the turnstiles, then jumped over them himself. A group of tourists struggled to get tickets, their voices steadily climbing in panic. When a rat raced across the tiled floor, one of them screamed. A businesswoman in a neat suit did everything she could to avoid eye contact with the homeless chick begging her for money. Sometimes Malachi really hated this stupid-ass motherfucking city.

His phone buzzed. He slid it open.

AUNTIE ISABEL

[ Where r u guys? Is everything O.K.? Mila's not answering. ]

That worried Malachi. A little bit. Even if Mila was ignoring everyone else, she still would have responded to her mom's messages. Or so he thought.

He slid the keyboard shut and called her. She answered on the second ring.

MALACHI ABRAMTZIK: Hi.

ISABEL SANTOS: Are you guys okay?

MALACHI: Yeah. I'm just waiting.

ISABEL: Is Mila running late?

MALACHI: (Nods. Realizes she can't see him.) Mhm.

ISABEL: Hmm. Why don't you come on over? I don't like you waiting out there by yourself... just text her you're coming, okay?

MALACHI: Yeah. Okay.

ISABEL: Okay. I'll see you soon. (End call.)

Did Malachi feel like a bad friend? A little. But it was still freezing in the station, even though it was warmer than outside. And he didn't want to hang out down here by himself for long. He wanted to head over to Auntie Isabel's where it was warm and bright and safe and he could stuff himself with Danish rolls.

MALACHI, TO MILA

[ im going to ur place meet me there ]

He really wanted those Danish rolls.

Really really.

***

BECCA STARED at her blinking cursor and chewed her thumbnail. She typed:

[ how long does a person have to be missing to call the police ]

and let Google autofill her search.

[ You Don't Have to Wait to Contact Authorities

If you suspect your loved one or friend has gone missing, contact the police immediately. Movies and TV shows have spread the myth that you must wait 24 to 48 hours to report missing people, but that's not the case for nearly every U.S. police office in the real world. Jul 2, 2018

How To Report a Missing Person - Lifehacker ]

Becca's heart skipped a beat. This didn't seem real. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and returned to the search bar.

[ who do you call for a missing person ]

She clicked on the first response.

[ Call local law enforcement first, using their non-emergency line so you can file a report (you can also go into the police station to file). But if you suspect foul play, 911 can be used. And if the missing person is a child, call 911, then call the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children: 800-THE-LOST (800-843-5678).

How To Report a Missing Person - Lifehacker ]

Did she suspect foul play? She didn't know. She ran through what had happened that day. No. Maybe. Not yet? She clicked on the link, but she couldn't think straight. The words went straight over her head. She had to read the article twice to understand it.

She went back to the search bar. This was giving her a headache. What if the missing person was a college student? Should she just contact campus authorities and let them do all the heavy lifting?

No. The missing—maybe missing—person was her friend. She owed Mila this much.

[ nypd ]

Becca turned up her nose as she skimmed their reviews. They had two stars. The first review opened with "great improvement on racial profiling." Becca snorted. But she didn't know what else to do. She hovered her mouse over their phone number, dug her phone out of her pocket, and dialled it. With her free hand, she crossed her fingers. Please don't be racist, please don't be racist, please don't be...

Transcript of Call to the New York City Police Department Non-Emergency Number from Rebecca Rask's iPhone

BECCA RASK: Hi! I'm so sorry, are you a racist?

OPERATOR: Is this a prank call—?

BECCA: No! Oh, my God. No. I just wanted to make sure 'cause my friend is missing and she's Peruvian so if you were this was going to be—

OPERATOR: Your friend is missing?

BECCA: Oh, yeah. I—I think so. I should have started with that. I would like to report a missing person. I think.

OPERATOR: You think?

BECCA: I'm not sure she's missing. I just saw her this morning, but no one's seen or heard from her since. (Softly.) I'm worried about her. I don't... I don't know what to do.

OPERATOR: (Coughs.) It's better to be safe than sorry. If your gut is telling you something's up, listen to it.

BECCA: Okay. Okay. I'll come in.

OPERATOR: Do you have the address?

BECCA: I'll Google it. Thanks for helping me and not being racist. Have a great day. (End call.)

Becca tossed her phone onto her dresser. Took a deep breath. Flipped her head upside down. Ran her fingers through the knots in her hair. Slid an elastic band from her wrist. Arranged her hair in a ponytail on top of her head.

Times like these needed a ponytail.

Taking another deep breath, she pulled her fuzzy pink coat around her shoulders and grabbed her purse. Her phone in hand, she headed out into the hallway. As she walked—quickly, with purpose, a Woman on a Mission—she dialed Malachi's number and pressed her phone to her ear.

MALACHI ABRAMTZIK: Hi?

BECCA RASK: Hey. Where are you?

MALACHI: (Unintelligible.)

BECCA: Sorry, what was that?

MALACHI: Mila's.

BECCA: Oh, my God. (Pressing the button for the elevator.) Is she there?

MALACHI: No.

BECCA: (Pinching the bridge of her nose. Tapping her foot. The building is old, the elevator slow. And Malachi's refusal to disclose even the slightest bit of unprompted information is getting on her already high-strung nerves.) Why are you at her place without her?

MALACHI: Her mom's cool. She gave me Danish rolls.

BECCA: Her mom! Can you put her on the phone? Is her dad there?

MALACHI: Why? (Pause.) Her dad's gone.

BECCA: Gone? Where is he? Jesus Christ, I should take the stairs...

MALACHI: Like, gone gone. Like went to get milk and never came back gone.

BECCA: I didn't know. She never—(Deep, shaky breath.) Can you put her mom on speaker?

MALACHI: (Puts the phone on speaker mode. Voice muffled, as if he's talking to someone in the room with him.) Becca wants to talk to you.

ISABEL SANTOS: Mila's roommate? Malachi, what's going on? You're scaring me. Where's Mila?

BECCA: Yeah. Hi, Ms. Santos. Look, I've got something kind of serious to tell you. Are you sitting down?

ISABEL: Becca, this isn't funny.

BECCA: I know. I'm not trying to be. (The elevator finally slides open. Becca jumps in and presses the button labelled L.) I'm going to the police station to file a missing person's report.

ISABEL: What?

BECCA: For Mila. I think she's missing. I'm really worried about her. No one's seen her, and she's not answering any of our texts.

ISABEL: Becca, I swear to God if you're fucking with me—

BECCA: (Face entirely red.) No. No! I would never!

ISABEL: I just... I just saw her. This morning.

BECCA: I'm so sorry. I'm sure she's fine. I'm sure it's nothing. I just—

ISABEL: Don't call the police.

BECCA: What?

ISABEL: I don't trust the police. I'll hire a private investigator.

MALACHI: Hmm. The NYPD is notoriously corrupt.

BECCA: I don't know what to do. (The elevator opens at the ground floor. Becca bites her lip, looks around, then cautiously exits.)

ISABEL: You don't do anything, Becca, sweets. She's my daughter. I'll handle this. I'll let you know what happens... do you have my phone number?

BECCA: No. I only have Malachi's.

ISABEL: (Recites her phone number.) If we don't find her by tonight and you don't wanna stay in your dorm by yourself, feel free to come to our place tonight. Malachi's staying here. (A breath.) You stay safe. I mean it. We don't know what happened to Mila, if anything did. If... (Her voice catches.) It might not be safe.

BECCA: I know. I'll be safe.

ISABEL: You take care. Call me if you need anything. Okay? (End call.)

Despite Ms. Santos' reservations, Becca headed out the door, Google Maps pulled open on her phone, directing her toward the closest police station.

***

AUNTIE ISABEL PACED across the living room rug, frantic. She'd generated enough electricity with her socks rubbing against the carpet that her chocolate brown hair stuck up around her face. Malachi sat on the couch, shoving Danish roll after Danish roll down his throat. Crumbs fell into his lap, purplish-red jelly dotting the corner of his mouth. He was a nervous eater.

"We can't go to the police," Auntie Isabel decided, once and for all. "I don't trust them. You've seen how they are."

ACAB, thought Malachi, and rightfully so. He didn't say anything, as his mouth was full of Danish rolls. Plus, the more he panicked, the more he fell into himself—where it was safe. Auntie Isabel was the opposite. The more panicked she got, the more she talked, the more she moved, the more space she took up.

But apparently she had not yet decided once and for all not to trust the police. "Oh. Jesus Christ. My daughter's missing, and I don't want to call the police. That's insane. That's..." She paused in the middle of the rug. Her eyes were wide and white. She stared at Malachi as if he held all the answers. "Malachi, what do you think? You know Mila better than anybody."

Malachi thought of the people in Mila's life. Her mom was a South American immigrant; her boyfriend and her roommate were both transgender; her best friend was a queer Middle Eastern Jew. None of them had a great track record with the NYPD. Besides, they wouldn't take the case of a missing brown-skinned Latina girl seriously. Involving them would be like a rat asking advice from its poison.

He swallowed down the Danish rolls and shrugged. "I don't trust them."

"We'll find her ourselves." Auntie Isabel nodded, her jaw set, as if this settled it. She marched to the door, yanking on her Hunter boots and puffy green coat. "C'mon, Malachi. I'll have Mrs. Voltolini watch Cruz."

Malachi grabbed one last Danish roll for the road and followed her.

***

MONTAGE

— Malachi and Auntie Isabel riding the subway to the NYU campus.

— There, they meet Becca, Adrian, and a couple other miscellaneous friends and classmates of Mila's, including Jaime, her childhood friend; Marisol, Becca's best friend; and Reza, a weird kid Malachi knew from some class a while ago, but couldn't place.

— In groups of two or three, they split off to search for her.

— Becca, paired with Marisol, realizes something. She stops in front of a brightly lit Starbucks to call Isabel.

BECCA RASK: Hi, Ms. Santos. I just thought of something...

ISABEL SANTOS: (Frantic.) What is it?

BECCA: I remember this morning Mila told me she was going on a hike in... in West Orange.

ISABEL: West Orange... West Orange... I know where she was headed.

BECCA: You do?

ISABEL: South Mountain. I used to take her and Malachi there all the time.

BECCA: Marisol and I will head over. Meet us there.

ISABEL: Wait to head into the woods until I get there, Becca, okay? We don't know what's out there.

BECCA: Okay. I'll call Adrian and Malachi to meet us there. Safety in numbers.

ISABEL: You girls be safe.

BECCA: You too. See you there. (End call.)

***

ISABEL WAS THE FIRST to get to South Mountain. Once her Uber dropped her off, she stood alone in the dark parking lot, scared the same thing that happened to her daughter would happen to her. Her flashlight casted a dim light in the darkness, doing nothing to ease her nerves. Other than the flickering streetlight above her, it was the only light. Every noise caused her to jump and throw her hand over her heart. Adrian and Jaime showed up next and huddled around her. Jaime watched the entrance to the parking lot, while Adrian kept his eyes on the tree line. Then it was Malachi and Reza, who showed up in Reza's car. It was barely big enough to fit everyone, but they crammed inside, grateful for the heat and the added safety. Not long after, Becca and Marisol showed up.

"We're going to look for half-an-hour," Isabel told the kids, sitting on top of the glove department. "Then we're all going to meet back here. Everyone, stay with your partners, and come back here immediately if something doesn't feel right. Call me if you need anything. Everyone has my number?"

Everyone other than Marisol and Reza chorused that they had it, so Isabel gave it to them. She pulled up a trail map on her phone and divided it amongst the groups. Isabel would take the south part of the woods; Adrian and Jaime the northern part; Malachi and Reza the eastern half; and Becca and Marisol the west.

With a plan in front of them, Isabel headed off into the woods with the kids, their phones' flashlights casting watery streams of light through the dark forest.

***

MALACHI WAS ON EDGE. He was alone in a dark forest looking for his missing best friend with a semi-stranger who scared the heebie-jeebies out of him. He'd wanted to pair up with Adrian or Becca or Auntie Isabel, but nooo. Adrian and Becca had already paired up with their other friends—Malachi, of course, was nobody but Mila's first choice—and Auntie Isabel had made up her mind to go alone, since they had an odd number. So he was stuck with Reza, who he half-knew from some class some time ago. Was it statistics last semester? Or intro to film last year? He didn't know. There were actually only two things he knew about him:

1. His name was Reza.

2. No matter the occasion, he came dressed in pajamas.

Today was no exception. He sported a pair of plaid pajama pants beneath a gray sweatshirt (and, somehow, an unbuttoned flannel over that). He looked more ready for a good nap than a manhunt in the woods. He was about an inch taller than Malachi, which infuriated him. If Malachi'd only grown another inch... Reza's olive skin seemed ghastly in the low light. His short, wavy dark brown hair disappeared into the trees above him. His sharp jawline and pronounced cheekbones juxtaposed the everything else about him, as if he was a supermodel on a heroin binge.

Reza terrified Malachi.

It was in Malachi's nature to avoid people, but he'd gone out of his way to avoid Reza. His intense dark brown eyes held a constant, righteous anger that pegged him as someone capable of murder. It was accented by the permanent dark rings under his eyes and his angular eyebrows with a slit shaved in one of them. Reza didn't look like the kind of kid you fucked with. He looked like the kind of kid who fucked with you. Malachi didn't like being alone in the dark woods with Reza. Especially not with Mila missing.

God, Mila was missing.

And Mila wasn't just his best friend.

She was his only friend.

Every friend he had, he had because of her. And he only loosely considered them "friends." They were all Mila's friends who he would sometimes hang out with. Even the people he considered family were only in his life because of Mila—her mom and Cruz and, of course, Mila. She was more than a friend to him; she was his sister. Their blood relations didn't matter. His blood relations didn't matter.

And he didn't know what he would do without her.

He didn't know if he could do without her.

"Did you know her well?" Reza asked. Malachi jumped at the sound of his voice, which was surprisingly fruity and warm. He would have expected it to be scratchy and hoarse, like a seventy-year-old chain smoker. He just looked like the type—you know, to dabble in heavy drugs. There was something almost Timothée Chalamet about him: that dangerous beauty, and you didn't know who it was dangerous to—him or you. The type of beauty that could kill. Malachi had never heard him speak before, only ever seen him in class, and found out his name when he'd heard others call him it.

The last thing Malachi wanted to do was make small talk. He nodded, then realized that in the dark with their flashlights trained ahead of them, Reza couldn't see him. "Mhm," he mumbled.

"Sorry," Reza said. There was an accent in his voice—he said sorry more like sore-ey. Midwestern, maybe a Minnesotan or Wisconsinite? Malachi hated the Midwest. The fact that Reza was from there made him hate him even more. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Malachi didn't respond. Silence fell over them other than the crunching of frozen leaves beneath their feet. Then Reza ruined it.

"I've known her since... freshman year," Reza said, even though Malachi hadn't asked. "We met at a party—"

Malachi froze. His hand sprung up in front of Reza, holding him back. "Be quiet," Malachi warned, and it wasn't just because he wanted him to be.

They'd reached the clearing where Mila and Malachi had played as kids. Malachi shone his flashlight from one end of it to the other, revealing what looked like a war zone. Torn, bloodied clothes hung from the branches. Blood splattered over the rocks, the grass, the bare trees. And there was Mila's drawstring bag in the middle of a tree fort they'd made as kids, open, its contents strewn. The tree fort itself was smashed to pieces, branches broken and tossed carelessly aside, nothing left standing other than the bones of the A-frame. Blood speckled the bag, her headphones, a rogue pad. Flies buzzed around it all like vultures.

The world spun beneath Malachi, his vision dotting with red. Bile rose in the back of his throat. He grabbed Reza's arm to steady himself, even though he didn't want to. His heart pounded in his chest, and his blood clotted with ice.

He didn't feel afraid. He hadn't yet processed the scene in front of him. He didn't even realize that whatever this was, it had happened to Mila. All he knew was it was dark, he didn't know anything about Reza, they were alone in the woods, there was blood (lots of blood) and a crime scene and who knew, maybe they were next.

Malachi yanked on Reza's arm. He strung him along as he bolted out of the clearing, back the way they came.