The beam of the flashlight shakes in my hand. I can hear his whisper almost as clearly as I could that day back in March, when we were sneaking across his backyard, and he placed this in my hand. Quiet, Jessa.

I scan the light behind me, around me. Across the way, trying to see through the trees. It looks so different here than the last time. It feels more dangerous, sounds more ominous.

The rain has been coming down steady and hard, and I can hear the river. The waterfall rages underneath the sound of the thunder, the rain. I know the river must swell, that it will be deeper than the day Caleb and I were here together.

I shine the flashlight across the expanse. I look for footsteps, for evidence of a campsite across the way.

I call his name, but it’s swallowed up. I don’t see a campsite—I can’t see anything that far in the dark.

I know there’s something on the other side. Caleb had plans to be in Pennsylvania, if his ID was anything to go on. That day of our hike, I remember the river being shallow, passable, that one could be nowhere for a moment, and then across the border.

But now it’s dark, and loud, and this is it. And for a moment, I wonder if I’m only seeing what I want to see, once more. If the truth is that Caleb did something to Sean, and was running away, and went over the bridge the day the river rose. That he was swept away, as everyone believed, along with the pieces of his car, to the ocean.

I am scared that there is actually nothing at all on the other side. Nothing but terrible hope, cut down. That this is as close as I’ll ever get, still infinitely far away.

I swing the flashlight around again, taking everything in.

I watch the path, expecting to see Eve coming down at any moment. Or maybe she’s already here. Maybe she’s waiting. There’s nothing here but the rain, the darkness. A person could disappear here. No evidence. An accident. A slip, a drowning. A body never found.

There’s one way in, and there’s one way out, and there’s a raging river in front of me, impassable now.

I can’t stay still, so I begin to pace. But I can do nothing more, other than call his name, over and over, into the darkness.

Eventually, I sit on the rock at the corner of the river, where Caleb and I once sat—just out of sight. Nobody responds to my calls. They’re swallowed up in the rain and the dark. So I sit, and I breathe, and think, You have done everything you can.

But that’s not true. The voice whispers everything it knows is true: You have done everything that is expected of you. But have you done everything?

The water rushes, angry in the dark, in answer. The answer is I haven’t. I have not done all I can.

The pieces I’ve followed fit together into the puzzle of a boy, leading me here. But more than that, it’s the puzzle of a girl. Leading to this moment, this version of herself.

From that girl in the first picture, afraid of the ocean that was six feet in front of her—to this, right now.

I jam the base of my flashlight into the mud, the light shining up, like a beacon, so I can find my way back.

I close my eyes and picture Caleb. Cutting the wheel, the water rising, but his head above the surface, swimming for shore.

And I think that maybe I am not just doing this for him.

I call Max. I try to. The phone keeps breaking in and out, so far from the main road and the trail entrance. Dropping the call before he picks up.

I send him a text instead. I’m crossing the river. I can’t wait. Eve is coming. Call someone. Call for help.

It shows that the message is sending, but it hasn’t gone through. I have to hope that it will.

I’m in New Jersey. I need to be in Pennsylvania. I leave my backpack, including my phone, to keep it all dry. I tuck it all out of sight, under a tree, trying to keep it protected. All I’ll have left is myself.

I remember the expression on Caleb’s face on Christmas, then Valentine’s Day in the library, the moment I saw him in his glasses, sitting at his desk.

I loved him once, the parts I thought I knew. I think he loved me too, the girl he thought he knew. Even if he didn’t believe I was a person capable of holding his secrets, and the truth. But I am more than he thought I was.

I wade into the river, and it’s freezing. I step back out, take off my outer jacket, lay it over the bag with my phone. The truth is, whether he’s there or not, I have to know. Because it’s not only his story, but mine.

The water rises up to my knees quickly, then my thighs, and when it hits my waist, I feel the current moving faster than I expected. Careful, be careful. I plant my feet gently on each rock, making sure I have my footing before continuing on.

And then, in the middle, when I’m nowhere, the ground suddenly drops away, and I’m weightless, at the mercy of a current, until I remember myself, and swim frantically, arm over arm, for the other side, my feet reaching down, and feeling nothing, until finally—a rock. My toe reaching the bottom, my next step solid, and then I’m on the way out, on the other side, with nothing but darkness and the cold. I remind myself—keep moving. Keep going.