When she finds him, her boy is no longer a boy. He’s a blister about to pop. His heart hammers, and his skin burns beneath her fingertips, his body already grotesque.

She trembles as she calls the doctor and describes her son’s symptoms. The man arrives at her home within the hour, examines her child as he lies in bed, and removes a syringe full of fluid from what used to be his abdomen.

“It’s all right,” the doctor soothes. “The change is proceeding normally.”

“But he’s too young. Barely fourteen.”

The doctor smiles. “It feels that way, doesn’t it? My daughter was 15. I was 18—so old my parents worried something was wrong. You?”

“Sixteen.” Not-quite memories rise from her subconscious. Echoes of a sleek, dark pelt and wet, webbed paws. The instinct to dive and build castles with driftwood.

He nods. “And we all turned out just fine. Turned back just fine.”

Erin resists the urge to ask the doctor what he changed into during his Wilding Year.  A water buffalo? A German Shepherd? A lion?  “I read about a new test. To tell early, what he’ll become.”

“Yes, isn’t DNA wonderful?” He reaches for the vial of fluid in his coat pocket. “I remember when we had to wait the full thirty days. But now …”

He raises the tube, inserts a thin paper strip, seals, then shakes it. The contents start out a queasy yellow but swirl into magenta, then forest green. She holds her breath and prays: Let Bryce return to her safe, the same sweet boy she’s always loved, and she’ll embrace anything fate ordains.

“And we have our answer.” The doctor tilts the vile against a color chart, much the way people check the chlorination of their pools. “You’re the proud parent of a flying fox.”

At the word fox, images—fur the color of autumn leaves, a tail tipped in winter’s white—fill her mind, and a coiled part of her releases. She reaches out to caress her son’s strange form, then hesitates.

“Wait. A flying fox. You mean, like a big BAT?”

“Yes, a giant fruit bat. Pteropus vampyrus, I believe. Congratulations.”

She recoils. The left hemisphere of her brain mutters this must be some joke. The right keens, No no no nonono.

Her son lies, a helpless pupa, but already her imagination conjures the leathery whoosh of his wings descending and his dreadful weight, claws sinking into the meat of her shoulder.

She shudders.

This is how a boy becomes a bat:

His skin forms a waxy, protective crust, and his body raises its temperature to near- boiling. He digests his own insides, a process that resets his specialized cells into the blank slates they were back in utero. Ancient genetic marching orders trigger cells to form new organs, bones. A different creature ripens, emerging from his old skin like a snake.

This is how a girl becomes a mother:

She falls in love too young. By the time she understands the mystery growing inside her, it’s too late to turn back. Her whole life she’s been anxious, stalked by nightmares—attacked by bees, crows and, especially, bats. Now she dreams her milk turns to stone in her baby’s stomach, and he falls apart in her arms like crumbling chalk. She dreams she forgets him in a locked car in the broiling Florida sun, and she finds his body flaccid as a broken water balloon. She dreams she checks her phone, only to glance up and find him on the bottom of a swimming pool. As she drags him out, his curls tangle between her fingers like seaweed.

While her teenage son incubates, Erin takes a week off work. She lugs his furniture and belongings into the garage, replaces his bedroom carpet with easier-to-scrub, stick-on linoleum.  She installs a water dispenser, hooks for food buckets, hanging ropes and blankets.

He oozes from his cocoon during the night. She finds him hanging upside down from his paddle fan, wings wrapped like a closed, bulging umbrella. He won’t understand her or retain clear memories of this time. Still, she calls.

“Bryce.”

He flares his wings, and their span is nearly as wide as she is tall, veins spidering across an impossibly thin, rubbery membrane and mutant skeletal limbs. His eyes are slits, his face feral, yet too human in the spooky, knowing way of gorillas. She screams.

Later, she fetches him chopped apples sprinkled with protein supplement. Despite his appearance, he eats no meat. She lowers her gaze, so he doesn’t see her revulsion.

Officials come to ensure he is properly cared for, that he can’t escape: a code inspector from the city of Miami Lakes, another from the Florida Department of Health, the Wilding doctor again. So many appointments, Erin takes off a second week.  Her boss isn’t happy, but what choice does she have? There’s no one else to help.

She catalogs things she’s grateful for: Her son’s rabies-free. He’s a modest-sized herbivore, so she can keep him home, instead of having to transfer him to one of those Wilding facilities. He’s not a vampire bat, requiring bags of blood.

But as the weekend rolls around, a new problem grows. The smell.

“Iz dis normal?” Erin asks the Wilding doctor over the phone, tissues dipped in Vicks VapoRub stuffed up her nose as tears stream down her face. Every time she opens her mouth, she tastes her son’s musk—a bold bouquet of ammonia and wet dog, with notes of rotten fruit and ass. The odor settles into her clothes, hair.

The doctor agrees caring for a flying fox can be “challenging.” He emails:

They like to bathe in their own pee. They urinate and rub it all over. Some male bats even have a special wing sac, where they ferment their urine and penile secretions to create a unique perfume to attract females.

Erin launches an emergency expedition to the grocery store–the same Publix where her son worked as a bag boy. She fills her cart with bleach, pet stain remover, air fresheners. As she hurries through the produce aisle, other shoppers inhale and stiffen. A man in a muscle tee groping avocados mutters, “Goddamn.”

Although she has well over fifteen items, Erin barrels toward the express lane. She peers into the brown eyes of the checkout girl and silently begs for mercy.

The skinny teenager starts scanning. “Oh hi, Ms. Hayes!”

With each beep, Erin’s more certain she’s never seen this girl in her life. Her nametag reads XIMENA, and she sports acrylic nails that are two inches long, neon yellow and filed to a feline point.

“How’s Bryce doing?” the girl asks. “They said at school he’s withdrawing for his Wilding Year?”

“Uh, yes, he’s fine. He’s home with me now.”

“Oh good.” The girl simpers. “Because he wasn’t returning my texts, and I wondered if he was mad. I thought maybe he didn’t want to go out anymore.” She rolls her eyes at the very idea, a look that says she’s smart and amazing and any boy would be lucky to have her.

Erin is speechless. Part of her—the divorced, 32-year-old mother who hasn’t dated in years—yearns for the confidence this child has mastered at—what? 15? The other is realizing her son has a girlfriend and never told her.

Erin forces a smile. “As soon as he’s feeling himself, I’ll have him call.”

“Thanks, assuming I’m not changing by then.” Ximena giggles and brushes a long, dark strand of hair from her face, nail crystals sparkling. The motion is so unexpectedly sexual, Erin gets a mental flash of the girl raking her nails down Bryce’s back.

Erin’s face broils. She pays for her groceries and flees.

The sun sinks as she arrives home and shelves the cleaning supplies. She’s heating dinner when a squeal of pain wails from her son’s room. She charges in.

Her son writhes, twists, pitches from the ceiling. Some sort of seizure. She forgets her own safety, the very real possibility of getting scratched or bitten. She doesn’t bother with gloves or even grab a towel. She runs toward him, and he fans his wings wide.

It takes a second to realize what’s really going on. To see his little bat balls. His shockingly long, erect bat penis. And the expression on his face. Not terror. Ecstasy.

Something white and unspeakable spurts across the space between them.

Erin startles awake at 2 a.m. Another nightmare. In this one, she allows Bryce to go on the class field trip to Washington, D.C., and the airplane crashes down.

But that isn’t what wakes her. Telltale squeaks and worse build from her son’s room. She sits up, hair still damp from the shower. She grabs her phone and debates for a solid fifteen minutes whether to google “bat masturbation.”

This is not a keyword phrase she particularly wants in her search history, red-flagged in some government database that hunts perverts. She cringes at the demented Facebook ads it will send her way, cleared cache or not. But she needs to know if this is normal flying fox behavior.

In the end, she can’t do it. She searches euphemisms: “bat reproduction,” “flying fox mating habits.” Nada.

So, she re-reads the email from the doctor, and there at the bottom is the contact for a Wilding support group, Miami-Dade County PCCC. Parents of Culturally Challenging Children.

The name needs no explanation. This is a world where mothers post Instagram photos of their horse-daughter’s perfectly braided mane and tail. Where fathers proclaim their wolf/panther/bear-sons have always been natural-born leaders, sure to make the varsity squad once they transform back. But no one brags over Happy Hour about their child, Alex the giant blob fish. Or Hannah the balding turkey vulture.

These are her people. If anyone will have an answer, they will.

Erin arrives early to PCCC’s monthly meet-up. Small world: It’s held in the back of a Panera Bread in the same suburban plaza as the Publix where Bryce worked.

As members mingle beside bagels and pastry, Erin introduces herself to two women whose nametags say their teenagers are bats. One is a painfully thin Hispanic mother named Theodora. The other is an older woman named Ruth, who Erin overhears saying she’s raising her granddaughter alone.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” the grandmother whispers to Theodora before turning on a smile for Erin’s benefit. “Welcome! Do you have any questions?”

Erin asks about odor removers. The younger woman recommends a special enzyme-based cleaner, while Ruth confesses she doesn’t worry about the smell.

“I live on a farm down in Homestead and keep my granddaughter in the barn. My horses don’t mind.”

Erin grins through her jealousy. “Well, also, this is embarrassing but do either of you have problems with them … touching themselves?”

The duo falls silent. Confused or just horrified? Erin swallows. “I guess what I’m asking, is it normal for them to—”

“—play with themselves all day long?” The thin woman rolls her eyes. “Yeah. It’s, like, Bat 101. The things Animal Planet never tells you.”

Erin blushes. The grandmother coos:

“Oh, honey, that’s nothing! After my husband passed, when I wasn’t sure if I could do it alone, I toured one of those group homes. I walk in, and there’s a whole pile of ‘em going at it. I about died, but the keeper assured me it’s natural; bats are just a social species.” She laughs. “Extremely social!”

The moment is so surreal, Erin feels like her skin is about to float off. Of all the things she expected from this group, she never thought they’d help her feel like Bryce’s behavior was something … quaint.

“What your son needs is exercise,” the thin one insists. “Do you have a backyard where you can build an aviary? Or a screened-in porch?”

Erin nods. This is good. This is Practical Advice. She’s been saving for a new roof, but the more urgent use for this money becomes crystal clear. Last year’s shoddy patch job will just have to hold one more hurricane season. And, if in the meantime, a raccoon finds its way through the missing shingles and crumbly soffits to take up residency in her attic, well, at least Bryce will have company.

On Monday, Erin returns to work for the first time since her two-week “vacation.”

She’s a sales rep for a company that manufactures mobile homes, fortunate she can do most of her work remotely. In her spare time, she finds a handyman to build an aviary—a man named Ulysses who promises in a confident Brazilian accent that, if she doesn’t pull a permit, he can get the work done next week, sem problema.

Once the enclosure goes up, there’s less of her son’s troubling behavior—or at least, Erin hears less of it. One gorgeous, 72-degree day in January, Bryce teases the neighbor’s cat by flying close, then away, then close again as Erin watches through her kitchen window. She’s flipping through unopened mail and stops at a thick envelope from Bryce’s high school.

It’s paperwork related to his withdrawal from freshman year and his grades-to-date—all As except for a B in drama, of all stupid things. But then comes a form, dated four months ago, NOTICE OF DISCIPLINARY SUSPENSION. It describes some sort of fight and the punishment, two days suspension.

Erin studies her signature scrawled at the bottom in confusion. Her son’s never gotten so much as a warning note. His teachers adore him.

She reaches for her phone and leaves a message for the principal. Then she remembers she has the cell of Bryce’s science club advisor. The teacher picks up on the second ring.

“What’s this about a suspension?” she blurts. “Bryce would never get into a fight.”

The teacher’s surprise echoes through the silence. Finally: “Well, Ms. Hayes, you signed the forms. The school sent you the details, but you declined a conference, so—”

“I knew nothing about this.”

More silence. “Bryce forged your signature?”

“No, I—he—”

The teacher sighs. “That’s so unlike him. The whole thing, actually, was such a surprise.”

“Exactly! Was he being bullied? How dare they punish him for defending himself. This better not be on his record when he applies to college. I’ll—”

“Ms. Hayes, he had a knife.”

Erin freezes. She pictures Bryce, a tow-headed 7 year old, brandishing a plastic sword while dressed as a knight for Halloween.

The teacher lowers his voice. “Officially, it was just a scuffle. The knife was still in his pocket. I kept it out of the record, or we would’ve had to notify police. It was one of those red Swiss Army deals.”

Erin suddenly knows the one. It belonged to her ex-husband. She’d left it buried in the tool chest in the garage. She didn’t think Bryce even knew it was there. “They must’ve been hurting him.”

“I thought the same, but he admitted to starting it. I told him I didn’t believe him, that he was my best student. You know what he said?”

Erin inhales.

“He said, ‘That’s why I did it. I’m tired of always being the good one. Maybe I want to be someone else.’”

Erin cradles the phone, rocking back and forth, as a piece of her withers.

The teacher talks on until there’s a loud knock at her front door. She apologizes, tells him she’ll have to call him back. She yanks it open.

“Hello ma’am,” says a man in a code enforcement uniform. “We’ve gotten some complaints about an animal.”

She slumps. “It’s not an animal, it’s my son.” When the man just stares, she adds, “Do you want to come in while I get the paperwork?”

He recoils. “No, ma’am. That is, yes, you’re registered. But we’ve had multiple complaints from neighbors since. Shrieking at all hours, increased pest activity. And then there’s the stench.”

She bristles. “I’m doing everything I can.”

“There are facilities—”

Erin imagines a cage full of brawny bats swarming Bryce with fangs and claws. Her eyes narrow. “I’m not putting him in a zoo.”

“He might be happier, with others like himself.”

Now she pictures the orgy grandmother Ruth described. She must turn white because the officer hurries on: “Or there are rural areas. Homes on land you could rent, zoned for this.”

“Because I have piles of extra cash laying around for a second home?”

His expression hardens. “Look, I’ll give you a week to address it. But then it’s a $100 fine per day.”

Erin spends the rest of the day online researching solutions. Despite the outrage she’d showered upon the code enforcer, she begins with the Wilding boarding facilities.

She dismisses the exclusive, private ones—sprawling reservations catering to the rich and starting at $25,000 a year.

On the other extreme are the free, government-run shelters for adolescents too large, dangerous, or biologically fragile to be cared for at home. She checks, and Bryce’s species doesn’t qualify.

Thus, she wades into the gray zone of uncertainty, facilities promising clean, safe housing for a “reasonable fee.” Erin scours reviews. A couple sound decent, but then they appear in a newspaper article, Wilding Homes Charged with Neglect.

Renting a place in the country sounds better every minute. She whittles down listings to those she might afford if she maxes out her credit cards.  She clicks “Check Availability” and learns parents reserve their spots years in advance. Years, plural.

She groans, officially the stupidest person in the world. How didn’t she prepare for this? Other mothers talked about “getting ready for the change” when Bryce was younger, but she was busy surviving potty training, then her divorce. The average Wilding wasn’t until 16, and Bryce was so scrawny. She thought she had more time.

A pop-up ad poofs before her: “Frustrated? You and your child deserve better. Go wild the natural way!”

She’s certain anyone who tells her she “deserves” anything is full of crap. But it’s midnight; she clicks.

Her browser loads freerangewilding.com, and a video starts. An overweight man in a cowboy hat tilts his head and asks, “Remember the good ol’ days? When children changed, they went off into the forests, deserts, swamps and learned to survive on their own. And they were better for it—happier, healthier, and stronger, as God intended.

“Nowadays, we lock ‘em up. We tell ourselves we’re protecting them—but are we? Our culture’s obsessed with safety but has lost sight of quality of life. That’s why our group advocates U.S. law be changed to allow Free-Range Wilding again and, in the meantime, helps parents find solutions in more family-friendly countries.”

Erin is both repelled and fascinated. She spends an hour scrolling, falling asleep to the site’s soundtrack, a peaceful blend of chirping crickets and a gurgling stream.

The next week, Erin moves Bryce inside, hoping it will make the backyard stink less to the neighbors, but that means the inside reeks more. A migraine moves into her skull, unpacks three suitcases. She ignores work emails, skips a Zoom meeting.

At the end of the month, she drags herself to another PCCC meetup. It’s a relief to be amongst parents with problems as bad as her own. She sits next to a new member—a single mother of twins, Ruth whispers—with no nametag. The woman’s blouse is mis-buttoned and there’s straw in her hair.

Then there’s the wealthy lady who lives on the water in Miami Beach. She confesses that her son, a large iguana, escaped his cage. Once loose, he joined two wild iguanas that claim her boat dock as their territory. Unable to tell them apart, she lured all three inside with a trail of mangos. Now the scaled princes rule over the vast, tile kingdom of her master bathroom.

She shrugs. “At least, whichever one’s Ryan, he isn’t trying to escape anymore.”

No one criticizes or even rolls their eyes. Thus, Erin gathers the courage to speak:

“Do any of you know about these Free-Ranger groups?”

A collective inhale and the room erupts. A father named José shouts the loudest. He wears a pink fútbol jersey, and his nametag says his son is an ass.

“One out of every ten of those kids die,” he says, relishing the last word.

A black woman with flawless eyebrows and a manatee for a daughter serenely ticks off the risks: “Some are killed by hunters, some by disease and hunger. Others are preyed upon by animals or become killers themselves.”

Her wife, a blonde woman with blue highlights, grasps her hand in support. “Not to mention how they disrupt the ecosystem. Haven’t we destroyed enough?”

Perhaps Erin can just crawl under this table here.

“Hey guys, back off,” says a dad named Manuel, whose bandaged right arm hangs from a sling. His nametag says his daughter is an alligator. “My parents were Free-Rangers. When I was young, I also thought it sounded great, soaring high, running free, all that.”

He turns to Erin. “But then they released my older sister.” His grimace makes the outcome obvious. “There’s a reason it’s illegal. Your son is your responsibility.”

Erin’s face burns. “Of course, he is.”

February’s highlight: Getting lectured by her boss. Sales, which have always been easy for Erin to wrangle, scurry into corners and disappear.

She’s tired and distracted, so she goes outside for fresh air. She checks her mailbox and finds her first monthly fine from the city: $3,000.

She lets the notice flutter to the ground and walks inside. She makes dinner for two—chicken cacciatore, Bryce’s favorite. She’s about to ask him how his day was when she breaks down, tears streaming into the red sauce.

She’s so lonely.

But she’s also angry.

“Fuck this. That jerk should have to help.”

She calls her ex-husband, Robert. They haven’t spoken at length since Bryce was 5, six months after the divorce. Her lips are numb as she dials.

“Your son’s going through the change,” she blurts when he answers. “I need money.” After a second, she adds, “This is Erin.”

“Yeeaah, I figured that,” he drawls, slow and dry, like he’s swallowed some insult left over from their decade-old fights. Then, “OK.”

The world tilts. “OK, you know it’s Erin? Or OK, you’ll send money?”

“Both.”

His voice sounds different, steadier. Or perhaps simply less drunk. “This is Robert?”

He laughs. “Yeah, it’s me. Why don’t we meet up and I’ll give you some cash. You can tell me how he’s doing.”

Robert hadn’t wanted to know how Bryce was doing since … ever.

“OK,” she agrees before she can think it through.

“How are you? You look well,” Robert says, rising from a table at the local Panera Bread. He’s wearing blue jeans and a Dolphins baseball cap, like always, but she’s never seen that look in his eyes before. It’s something like an apology.

“I’m fine,” she says, sitting down. “It’s your son who needs help.”

He grins. “How is he? What is he? Lemme guess, a python. No, wait, a shark!”

Her insides harden. “How much can you contribute?”

He pulls out a wad of bills, fanning them proudly. “Three hundred dollars.”

She forces herself to put the money in her purse before speaking. “When can you get more?”

He scowls. “I drive a forklift, Erin. That’s my whole savings. At least, what I can save after most of my paycheck goes to you.”

Ah, resentment—this old friend, she recognizes. The words pour from her mouth before her brain catches up: “Well, if you have leftovers, maybe I should petition the court to increase the amount.”

“You–”

She’s sure he’s going to call her a bitch. She’s sure he’d find the money if this was a bar and he wanted another round.

Instead, he clutches the table, breathes deeply. When he looks up, his expression is closer to shame than fury. “It’s all I have.”

She softens. Maybe he’s telling the truth. “Well … thanks.”

Robert clears his throat. “So, how’s Bryce? He’d gotten so big when I saw him.”

Time stops. Erin rewinds. “What?”

“He didn’t tell you? He texted me three months ago, wanted to meet here after his shift at Publix.”

She gawks, tastes bile.

“He seemed pissed, at first. But then we started talking.” Wonder fills his eyes. “He’s so smart! And proud of his little job, his girlfriend.”

She can barely speak. “W-why did …?”

“He wanted to know how come I was never around. I told him the truth: That I was a drunk, and I hurt you, so you left so I wouldn’t hurt him. I told him it was the right decision, so when I finally sobered up enough to realize it a few years ago, I stayed away.”

She inhales so hard, it burns. She’d never known if Robert had really understood.

“I apologized, asked if he wanted to see me on a regular basis.”

It’s not his decision, she wants to shout, it’s mine.

“He said yes. But then I didn’t hear from him.” The hope she’s rekindled burns in his gaze. “When he changes back, will you tell him I can’t wait to see him? That I love him?”

She vaults upright. You don’t get to say that, she yearns to shout, you haven’t earned the right.

Instead, she turns and escapes into the parking lot.

Erin skips the March support group meeting; she doesn’t have it in her.

So, one of the bat mothers, Theodora, organizes a Zoom call. She invites grandma Ruth, who’s been fighting a cold for weeks; the new single mom of twins, who can’t make any more in-person meetings because of her work schedule; and Ulysses the handyman. Ulysses’ grandson cocooned and is expected to turn into a pot-bellied pig.

Lying in bed with her laptop, she listens while Theodora and Ruth chat about a book they’re reading, World’s Most Amazing Bats!  

“Did you know, without bats, there wouldn’t be chocolate or tequila?” Theodora asks. “They’re pollinators for cocoa, agave, lots of fruit.”

“And the mothers are smart. They take turns caring for their pups in a large creche,” Ruth says. “That way each can hunt for food.”

“Must be nice,” cracks Angelica, the single mom of twins. She’s paying most of her nurse’s salary to board her kangaroo daughters in a private facility manned by strangers, four hours’ drive away. “Why don’t humans do that?”

Erin startles, thinks, Yeah, why don’t we? A possibility dawns: Ruth has land and empty horse stalls, but barely enough energy to care for her granddaughter. Would she accept help or money in exchange for boarding? They could make a “creche” of their own.

She blurts the idea out loud.

“Wow, uh, that’s a lot to think about,” Theodora says diplomatically when no one responds.

“Totally,” Erin agrees, dread rising. Maybe Ruth’s insulted by the offer. Or doesn’t want the imposition. “Just a thought. No pressure.”

But Ruth smiles. “Let’s do it.”

Next month, Erin, Angelica and Ulysses move their kids to Ruth’s horse farm, which sits on fifteen acres in Homestead. An hour from the sea and skyscrapers of South Beach, dirt plots sprout citrus, sugarcane, and peppers.

Erin rents two trailers from work at a discount, installs them on Ruth’s property. She and Angelica move in temporarily, rotating feeding and cleaning when they aren’t working. Ulysses modifies stalls, adds screens, locks, lights, fans, and a/c units.

Bryce’s stall is next to Ruth’s granddaughter, and the two flying foxes chatter at sunup and sunset, swinging from their separate nets. They’re so noisy, it’s not long before a group of tiny, wild bats joins them nightly in a nearby cabbage palm. One humid June evening as Erin mucks out the stable, the insectivorous bats swoop after mosquitoes swarming the lights.

She can almost ignore how badly Bryce wants to join them, how he strains to follow when they disappear into the dark. Just five more months until he transforms back, she tells herself. She’s massaging her temples when Ruth walks in to say goodnight.

“Something wrong, honey?”

“Oh no, everything’s great.” And it is—really, she’s grateful just to be there. When she told the city she was moving Bryce, they cut her fines and agreed to an extended payment plan. The installments are almost reasonable.

But Ruth’s eyebrows call her a liar.

Erin smiles an apology. “It’s just, Bryce called his dad before the change.” Her smile curdles. “He wants to see him regularly, after.”

She hadn’t told anyone at first because she was too upset. Then, with the move, it was easier to stay busy. Now she falters because talking about it will make it real.

“And that’s bad because …?”

“Robert’s an alcoholic.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear that.” Ruth hesitates. “My daughter’s addicted to painkillers. That’s why I’m raising Amy.”

Erin had suspected as much. “That must be hard.”

Ruth studies her hands. “For a long time, I blamed myself. I thought Amy was my penance, then my second chance. Of course, now I’m making all sorts of new mistakes.” She laughs at herself, shrugs.

Erin nods. “When I left Robert, I swore I’d do better. Now he’s claiming to be sober. I just don’t know if I can trust him.”

Ruth pauses. “Do you need to?”

Erin cocks her head, certain she’s heard wrong.

“Maybe Bryce has some questions only his father can answer,” Ruth says. “Do you trust Bryce?”

Does she? “I–He’s just a child.”

Ruth looks at her pityingly, as if she’s the babe. “Oh, sweetheart, are you sure about that?”

Erin wakes that night with a gasp, but for once it’s not a nightmare. As she sits up in the blackness of her trailer, she knows something is wrong. She listens.

Silence. And the nagging sense she’s forgotten something.

She reviews her day. Work’s improved since the move; she’s met all her sales goals and deadlines. She’d fed Bryce before bed, so he shouldn’t be hungry. She’d—

Oh God. After she cleaned his stall, she’d been so busy talking to Ruth. Did she remember to lock it?

She runs to the barn in her pajamas.

His door hangs open. She dashes inside, checks every corner, then checks them again.

But he’s gone.

When Ruth and Angelica venture outside the next morning, they take one look at Erin’s devastated expression and know what’s happened. Together, they scour the property, then walk the neighborhood, checking trees, porches and rooflines.

As noon arrives, Erin’s voice shakes, “I guess I should call the police.” She’s caught between hope they’ll find her son and terror they’ll arrest her for neglect.

When the patrol car arrives, the officer takes in her puffy eyes, her familiar story. He inspects the barn.

“They usually come back within 48 hours, once they get good and hungry,” he consoles. “We’ll put out an Emerald Alert, and I’ll have someone on our missing persons team check in with you in a few days.”

He heads back to his patrol car.

Erin pales. “Wait! Aren’t you going to call for a search?”

He glances around, as if to remind her they are only a handful of miles from the Everglades, 1.5 million acres of sweltering wilderness.

“Ma’am, do you know how many missing Wilding calls we get a day?”

Erin piles fresh pineapple and papaya into Bryce’s stall in hopes the scent will lure him back.

Forty-eight hours pass. She makes flyers in English and Spanish with Angelica’s help, stuffs them in mailboxes, posts them at gas stations and the local feed store.

She researches Wilding escapes online. When she learns teens are more likely to return to their old homes than any temporary facility, she speeds back to suburban Miami Lakes. She dashes into her backyard, checks the aviary, every tree.

Nothing.

Inside, the entry smells stale. The family photos in the hallway Cheshire grin a decade out of date. The rooms are empty, empty, empty.  In the garage, where she finds Bryce’s bedroom furniture and boxes of belongings, she sinks to the floor.

She reaches for one of the boxes and opens it with trembling hands.  She caresses soccer trophies he won in elementary school, thumbs through fantasy novels he devoured circa sixth grade. But where is Bryce the Teenager? If he never returns, what evidence will she have of these last, precious years? All she finds of her adolescent son are his stinky sneakers and dead cellphone.

She plugs it in. Her throat closes at the idea that she, a mother who never wanted her son to grow up, may get exactly what she wished. She longs to ask him about his new girlfriend. To understand why he never told her about the fight at school. To hear what great memories he’d bring back from that class field trip to Washington, D.C.

Vvvvvrrrrrrrrrr. The charging cellphone buzzes. She snatches it with the irrational thought that it’s him. Instead, it’s 326 missed messages, the last from his father.

Hope to see you soon.

Her shoulders fall and she laughs, harsh and bitter. If she’d read this text a month ago, she’d be imagining a thousand different ways her ex could disappoint Bryce or twist him into a tiny version of his worst self.  She’d delete the message and forbid further contact. Period.

But now, what wouldn’t she give to let him make his own decision. To support—however warily—whatever scarred relationship the two might salvage? Slowly, she puts the phone down. She leaves the message intact, holding onto the hope that Bryce may one day answer it himself.

And that’s when she remembers: The attic. With her house’s leaky roof and crumbly soffits, maybe Bryce flew back and squeezed inside.

She grabs a flashlight and ladder, hauls the A-frame into the house and climbs its rungs into the cramped, sawdusty space. She wants to believe he’s there—needs to believe it. So, for the first time, she uses her overactive imagination to picture not the worst outcome, but the best: Her son, come home. Her son—not a bat or a boy, but a young man. And her, letting him be one.

She shines her light through the darkness and holds her breath.

Editor: Aigner Loren Wilson

First Reader: Morgan Braid

Copy Editors: Copy Editing Department

Accessibility: Accessibility Editors