She's gone somehow lands more softly than she went back. That one feels like a bone snapping. Clarisse flinches, her mouth opening.

She wants to argue that Abby doesn't know, actually, where Ellie is. That if the leading theory is true, the Ellie who was here doesn't exist anymore. A person can't go back to a place they never left. She might just be nowhere. Nowhere.

She thinks those things, but she can't seem to make any sound. She doesn't think she can breathe. All the muscles in her chest are seizing up. She might be nodding—she thinks she is nodding—but it feels unreal, like she's no longer connected to her body. Like she's the one who disappeared.

She's gone.

She knew it when she reached out for Ellie in her sleep and there was nothing there. She knew it when she sat up and brushed a hand over Ellie's blanket, pulled up all the way to the pillow, and it had still felt slightly warm. Like she'd just gotten up, like she'd be right back. When she had looked outside and seen Ellie's shoes and the grass covered in dew with no footprints leading away from the tent.

All day. Ellie's been gone all day.

Clarisse lifts a hand to her mouth as if she can stop what's going to happen next. She can't. She says it anyway.

"I know." Her voice is stretched taut, a rubber band about to snap. "She's gone."