“The dead get lost, too, you know,” Claire says matter-of-factly. “And when people are ready to leave, when they’ve found what they lost, they kind of...glow. A little. It looks pretty.” She sniffs the bear and then holds him out to me. “Can you wash him? Please?”

“Uh, sure,” I say. “Like I’m-a-bride glow, or a more radioactive thing?” I think of the woman in the diner who had the odd light that clung to her. Merry, I think her name was. “When you say ‘a few aren’t happy,’ do you mean they’re actively hunting for me? Do they know where I am?”

Peter beckons me. “Found you a present, too, Goldilocks. Come on.” He trots out of the bedroom and down the hall. Swearing under my breath, I yank on jeans—a treasure that I found a few days ago, shortly after I scraped the last of the red paint off my skin—and follow him outside.

On the porch there’s a mountain bike. We’ve seen bikes before, lots of them, most with bent frames or missing wheels or rusted so they can’t move. But this one looks pristine.

He stands behind it. Proud. Nervous. Even, I think, a little fearful.

Reverently, I touch the handlebars. This...this is... A bike doesn’t need gas. A bike doesn’t need roads. A bike can take me...away. Far away. With this...I can look for a way out. Really look.

Behind me, Claire skids to a halt in the doorway. “Ooh, can I try it?”

“Lauren first.” Peter’s eyes are only on me. “She has something she needs to do.” He hands me a backpack. It’s heavy enough to have several canteens of water. I’m guessing there’s some food in there, too. “Remember, ‘Not all who wander are lost,’” he cautions. “But a hell of a lot of them are. Keep your distance from town.”

I look into his eyes and think I see hurt in there. It suddenly occurs to me that he wants me to refuse the gift, refuse what it means. He wants me to stay. But I can’t. This is my chance. Maybe it’s only a slim chance, but I feel sure in a way that I can’t explain that I can do this, find the crack in the wall, find a way out. I at least have to try.

Peter hands me a wig. It’s blond curls, like Dolly Parton. “So no one will recognize you, at least not from a distance.”

“Thanks.” I pull it on, tuck in my own hair, and then I carry the bike off the porch.

Claire trails after me, her eyes wide. “Lauren?”

I look at Claire with her wide puppylike eyes, and words stick in my throat. Kneeling, I hug her. She throws her arms around my neck. I want to reassure her, tell her I’ll be back, that I only want to explore, that it’s unlikely I’ll find a break in the dust, especially on my first trip out.

But it could work, and if I do find a break...

My throat and chest feel tight. I don’t want to miss Claire. Or Peter. I wasn’t supposed to care about either of them.

Peter leaps off the porch and lands next to us. Gently, he pries Claire out of my arms. Claire curls up against him. He strokes her hair and murmurs, “If they come back they’re yours. If they don’t they never were.”

“If you love someone, set them free.” That’s the start of that quote. I don’t meet Peter’s eyes. I can barely meet Claire’s. She’s imprinted on me like a duckling. Except for sleep and showers, she hasn’t left my side. She’s like the little sister I never had. How can I just leave her? And Peter... “Most likely, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Most likely,” he repeats.

I don’t know what else to say. I shouldn’t care so much. Mom is waiting for me and Peter and Claire...they are nearly strangers. Except that they don’t feel like strangers at all.

Feeling stiff, as if my muscles are unwilling, I climb onto the bike and start to pedal. The paper clips and buttons and bottlecaps crunch under the tires. I ride out of the yard and turn to head into the desert, toward the dust that imprisons Lost. I don’t look back.

As I pedal, I force myself not to think about the look on Claire’s face or in Peter’s eyes and instead think about the last time I rode a bike. A couple years ago, Mom had gotten it into her head that a family reunion would be spiffy, and so she’d set up a weekend getaway by a lake in Oregon. I was forced on several hikes and bike rides with my cousins, all of whom were so very enthusiastic about my potential to climb the corporate ladder now that I had a job as a marketing and PR assistant at a consulting firm—my first wise career move, they said. Never mind that I was the assistant to the assistant. Or that I hated it. And them. I nearly quit my job after that weekend. But Mom caught a stomach flu, and since her immune system was crap... And, well, I hated the hikes, but the bike rides were the best part of the weekend. No one tried to talk to me on the bike rides. Everyone was too focused on not hitting a root in the woods and flying over the handlebars to either criticize or compliment my life choices. I could admire the greens and browns of Oregon in peace.

Composed of opposite colors, the desert is equally beautiful. The sky is lemon-yellow, and the sun caresses the dirt and rocks, causing the mica in the rocks to glitter like diamond shards and the red clay to look like flecks of rubies. Lost objects litter the desert floor like old bones: socks, keys, phones, wallets, glasses, pens, books, magazines, dentures, umbrellas, hair clips, spoons, scissors. And I feel optimistic for the first time in days. As I ride, I let myself think about home, about Mom, about life without hiding or scavenging. Without Peter and Claire.

Peter and Claire will be fine without me. They’ll forget me soon and live their own lives, and I’ll live mine, and this will all fade into a dreamlike memory. Missing them will only hurt for a little while. Not as badly as missing Mom.

Ahead is the void. It rises in front of me, a wall of dust.

I slow, and then I turn to ride alongside it—the town to my left, the void to my right. After a while, I see a shape ahead of me, like a boulder, a few yards away from the motionless dust storm. It’s an abandoned car, a convertible. Reaching it, I slow, then dismount.

I check the ignition—no keys.

I check the glove compartment—nothing but registration, insurance, and a wad of napkins from a fast-food restaurant. Also a tire gauge. For an instant, I consider keeping the gauge, but I don’t have a tire pump so it’s pointless. I shove it back in the glove compartment, and I pop the trunk.

Beach chairs, useless.

Beach towels... I stuff one in my backpack.

Suntan lotion, nearly full. Brilliant find!

Sandwich, great. Bag of pretzels, okay. Soda can... I’ll save it for Claire, I think. She’ll love the treat. And then I remember that I’m leaving. If I’m lucky. If this works.

I feel a pang and try to stifle it quickly.

I close the trunk when I finish, and it occurs to me that I scavenged this car without hesitation. Elsewhere, my actions would be considered theft. I hope I can shed this charming new habit quickly once I’m home. Otherwise, Mom might be embarrassed at how often the police have to haul me in for petty larceny.

I try to imagine how I’ll explain this place to Mom and what her reaction will be. She might laugh. Or think I’ve lost my mind. Lost my mind in Lost. Hah. Maybe she’ll think it’s a joke. Or a lie. I hate the idea that she’ll think I’m lying to her.

As I smear the suntan lotion on my face and arms, I notice that the dust bank covers half the hood of the car. Odd. I’d thought the car was parked several feet away from the void. Backing away from the void, I climb on my bike.

Peter said to treat it like quicksand, or a black hole. Only a Finder or a Missing Man can enter the void without danger. If he hadn’t found me after my car ran out of gas... Without a Finder, an ordinary person like me will disintegrate inside the void. Fade away and never return. But if I can find the end of the dust storm, I can bypass it and escape. If I can even find a thin spot, I can punch through the storm to the other side. Pedaling, I ride parallel to the void, watching the dust for any weakness.