Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein

Now

They checked the stormwater drains for Henry first. Then the swollen banks of Shallow Reservoir. The previous night’s thunderstorm had been the biggest and wildest the area had seen for years. It dumped two months’ worth of rain and hail in half an hour, stripped trees of limbs and turned street gutters into rapids. Sheets of corrugated iron were ripped from the post office roof, and a mudslide took out the same section of Cutler Bend that had been scorched by bushfires only a year ago.

It was the kind of night that chewed everything up and spat it out again. None of us wanted to imagine that Henry might have been caught in its jaws.

We doorknocked homes and searched shops, checked the library as well as his favourite fishing spot. It wasn’t until early afternoon that somebody stumbled across a muddy mountain bike inside the train station’s waiting room. It was propped on its kickstand, the front wheel turned on a playful angle, as if to say, ‘What took you so long?’ At first it was a relief to realise Henry had made it to the station unscathed. He must’ve boarded the previous night’s final service, or one of the morning trains. It was just a matter of waiting a few hours until he came home.

But hours turned into days.

Days into weeks.

Now those weeks have somehow stretched into months.

Since January I’ve been reading everything I can about missing persons. Some people go missing intentionally, like running away or needing time out; others disappear unintentionally, like having an accident or suffering from mental illness. In some cases, such as abduction or homicide, people go missing because they are forced.

And when a person has been missing for more than three months, they are considered to be long term missing. Henry has been gone for two months and thirty days.

Tomorrow he will become a long-term missing person.

His fourteenth birthday is next Friday.

I’d never really thought about what happens when a teenager disappears. Most of those local teens you hear about on social media seem to turn up after a few days, a little worse for wear and with some explaining to do. Beyond a passing curiosity about why they chose to run away, I’d never given much consideration to the days they were actually missing, as though there was a black void between them leaving home and turning up again.

Now it’s all I can think about.

Where do these kids sleep? Are they warm enough? Do they have money for food? Can they shower, clean their teeth? Do they fall asleep easily or do they lie awake in the dark feeling completely alone?

One website explains that a missing person could be a victim of misadventure, which sounds almost silly, like a fun escapade that somehow veered off track. It reminds me of a conversation I had with Henry a couple of months before he disappeared. We were at the service station overlooking the railway line on Bridge Road, and Henry watched on as a train pulled away from the platform, gathering speed towards Sydney and beyond.

‘When I leave here,’ he told me, ‘I won’t be like you. I won’t keep coming back again and again.’

He said it like I had some kind of choice. I’d been bouncing around like a pinball for years since my parents’ marriage imploded, my dad agreeing to whatever custody arrangements Mum demanded because he didn’t want to end up in family court.

‘But this is your home,’ I replied, glancing up from the bike tyre I was filling with air. ‘Won’t you miss it?’

Henry shrugged. ‘Nup. It’s like when I get on my bike – sometimes I just wanna keep going and never look back.’ He ran a hand through his hair before pulling on his green Lucky-7 cap, casting his face in shadow. ‘You know those old black and white movies Uncle Bernie loves?’

‘Westerns?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘How the cowboy always gets on a horse and rides off into the sunset? And all the kids run to watch until he’s this tiny speck on the horizon, then they blink and he’s gone and they know they’ll never see him again?’

‘Mm-hmm.’

‘That’ll be me. Off on some new adventure.’

I was only half listening at the time. I may have even laughed or said something dismissive.

Then I blinked, Henry.

And now you’re gone.

* * *

I walk the full length of the train station’s waiting room and circle the patch of pebbled concrete where Henry’s bike was found. This room has been swept out regularly since

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