When the creek dried to a trickle, my brother started walking the spine like he was looking for something he’d lost. He’d come back with junk in his pockets: a rusted hinge, a fisherman’s lure, a child’s shoe, just the one.

He stopped coming back for supper. Ma left his plate on the table until the gravy skinned over.

I found his boots by his bed. Caked mud was falling off in shapes. The laces were still tied. The insoles held the shape of his feet.

The sheriff asked if he left a note. He didn’t. The riverbed didn’t, either.

– J.M.C. Kane