She still remembered their names, their laughter in the halls, their little backpacks swinging as they raced toward the yellow bus in the parking lot. She traced a finger over one face in particular, Nora Kelly. Wide green eyes, a missing tooth, and a pink ribbon tied in her hair. Norah had lived two houses down from Lana back then.
They had shared popsicles on the curb every summer. The photo made Lana’s chest ache until a knock snapped her back into the present. Deputy Harris stood in the doorway, eyes wide. Sheriff, you need to see this. They were at the hospital 15 minutes later. A woman had been found by a fishing couple half a mile from the dig site.
She was barefoot, dressed in tattered clothes that didn’t match any local brands. She was dehydrated, malnourished, and barely conscious, but she was alive. The nurse stopped Lana outside the exam room. She’s stable, no ID, mid-30s. Keep saying she’s 12 years old. We thought it was trauma until she gave us her name.
The nurse handed Lana a clipboard scrolled across the top in trembling handwriting. Nora Kelly. Lana’s knees nearly buckled. She says she was on a school field trip. The nurse added gently and that she’s been trying to get home ever since. The woman inside the room sat up slowly when Lana entered.
Her hair was long, tangled, her face drawn and pale. But the eyes, they were unmistakable. Green, wide. Lana stopped at the foot of the bed. Nora, the woman blinked, her eyes welled up. You got old, she whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek. Lana felt her throat close. You You remember me? Nora nodded. You had chickenpox.
You were supposed to come, too. Tears burned in Lana’s eyes. She walked slowly to the chair beside the bed and sat too stunned to speak. “They told me no one would remember?” Norah whispered. “That no one would come.” “Who told you that?” Lana asked gently. Norah looked past her out the window. Then she turned back, voice a whisper.
“We never made it to Morning Lake. The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time Lana drove back to the sheriff’s office. The golden hour light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across her desk. She didn’t sit down. Instead, she stood staring at the whiteboard she had cleared that morning.
It now held 15 names tacked up in two neat columns. Above them in red marker, Morning Lake field trip, May 19, 86. Below, a new heading. Norah Kelly, survived, returned. She circled Norah’s name, then added, “Found May 5th, 2025 near Morning Lake site. Appears to have aged normally. Believe she’s 12 years old.
No memory of events after the bus left school.” Repeats the phrase, “We never made it to Morning Lake. Lana exhaled slowly. Something didn’t make sense. If Nora had been alive all this time, where had she been? And what about the others? By 9:00 p.m., she was back at the hospital. The doctors had run basic evaluations. No signs of injury beyond sun exposure, dehydration, and psychological trauma.
Her DNA was being processed, but Lana didn’t need the test. It was her. She was sure Norah had been moved to a quieter wing. When Lana entered, she found her curled beneath a blanket, staring at a small paper cup of water on the tray. “Hi again,” Lana said softly. Norah looked up. Her face still held the gaunt fragility of someone too long away from the world, but her voice was clearer.
“You believe me, don’t you?” “I do,” Lana said. Norah gave a sad smile. Most don’t. Lana took a seat. Can I ask you something? Norah nodded. Do you remember the bus ride? Norah looked down. Only the beginning. The driver didn’t talk much. He wasn’t our usual guy. And there was someone else, a man waiting by the fork in the road. Lana leaned forward.
Do you remember what he looked like? Not really. I think he had a beard. I just remember what he said. What was that? Norah’s voice dropped to a whisper. He said the lake wasn’t ready for us yet. That we’d have to wait. Lana felt the chill crawl up her arms. He got on the bus, Norah said. And then I don’t know.
I woke up in a barn, but it wasn’t a barn anymore. It was like a home, but the windows were covered and the clocks were all wrong. What do you mean? They always said it was Tuesday, even when it wasn’t. They wouldn’t let us talk about before. We had to use new names. Lana tried to keep her face neutral.
Who’s they? Norah swallowed. There were two of them at first. A woman and the man. She called him Mister Avery. I don’t know if it was his real name. She disappeared after a few months. I think she got sick. Do you know where the barn was? Norah shook her head. They moved us around, sometimes in vans. We weren’t allowed to look outside.
