As of last evening, the holiday weekend was off to a roaring start. Dylan went missing ten minutes after we got here, and we had mom, Phil and me fanning out across the town looking for him.
Someone had heard him asking where his backpack was, and then where the car was and then he was gone. We searched the house and then the streets. When I hit the fire department, they sent me to the police department at the edge of town. Two seconds after I said “missing child” three officers whipped out notebooks, took down descriptions, and jumped into their cruisers.
“Oh boy, a lost seven year old on Memorial Day Weekend; there are a LOT of seven year olds.”
A fourth took me to her car to start paperwork. She was thumbing through everything a couple of times, not finding the right form, when I finally said, “Look, I don’t have my cell phone on me, maybe we should check in and see if he’s still missing.” So she called mom and said she was with me and did they find Dylan yet? Yes, he was with Phil and I should come home. I burst into tears, handed the phone back, and walked half a mile back to the apartment.
He had been hiding under the futon in one of the bedrooms, mad that someone had unloaded his backpack and put it in the house before he could. He heard us calling for him all along.
We talked for a bit while I sobbed and he clung to my neck, and then we both fell asleep on the futon while Mom, my step dad, & Phil assembled the new grill out back. And then we went to Margaritaville where the adults had several large house specials apiece.