Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu

in the gardens and yards of these big fancy houses. Clusters of pumpkins by front doors and gauzy fake spiders’ webs pulled over bushes and hedges. Emma and I would always trick-or-treat in this neighborhood when we were little because the people who lived here gave out the best candy—whole Snickers (not just the mini size), Ring Pops, and jumbo-sized bags of M&Ms. Dr. Jorgenson didn’t give out candy on account of being a dentist, but he and Mrs.Jorgenson would answer the door and give out glow-in-the-dark spider stickers and temporary tattoos of ghosts and witches.
    I remember during those years when Ethan was missing and we would come and ring the doorbell. They would appear, the two of them, Mrs. Jorgenson’s face searching ours as we stood on their porch, our bags outstretched and open. I remember her distracted half smile as her eyes skimmed over us, taking us in one by one. As if she almost expected Ethan to show up on her front doorstep dressed as SpongeBob SquarePants or Captain America.
    After two years I stopped trick-or-treating there. It was too sad.
    But here I am on my ten-speed in the driveway. My eyes search the house, wondering if I could just go up and ring the doorbell and ask this guy—this poor kid who suffered what was probably some sick, crazy shit for four years—what went down with my brother so maybe I can get an idea of how to help him. Assuming he can even be helped.
    Then I hear the drumming coming from around back, from the detached garage.
    Whoever it is, it’s pretty good. I mean, it’s no Keith Moon, but still. Decent.
    I drop my bike on the front yard and head around toward the source of the noise. And there he is in the flesh. Ethan Jorgenson. Carlotta King interview subject. Nationally known crime victim. Small town cautionary tale.
    He’s wailing away on a Ludwig. Deep blue. That set must have cost more than one of my dad’s weekly paychecks.
    He doesn’t see me at first. His eyes are closed, and he’s playing along to some song making its way out of some fancy wireless speakers near his feet. I listen for a few seconds. It’s some crappy song by Green Day. God, I hate that band so much. Not only are they ancient, the lead singer’s facial expressions always look like he’s about to have a seizure or something. But Ethan is drumming like he’s in some perfect mental place. He’s wearing a light blue polo and dark jeans and a soft smile. He looks weirdly old to me. I think it’s because even though I saw him briefly in the gym during those news conferences and, of course, on the Carlotta King show, in my head he’s still the same middle schooler staring at me from those MISSING posters in his dad’s waiting room. That eleven-year-old boy wearing some Abercrombie shirt and trying to seem cool.
    I wait until he’s done and he opens his eyes. When he sees me he gasps out loud.
    Way to go, Caroline. Great plan sneaking up on a kidnapping victim.
    â€œCan I … are you…,” he stands up, his expression confused.
    â€œHey,” I say, holding my hands up in an I-bring-you-no-harm-take-me-to-your-leader pose. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m, um … I’m Caroline Anderson? I’m the older sister of … Dylan? Um…”
    The lunacy of this plan hits me hard. This entire idea seemed much better inside my head when I was stoned.
    I hear a back door slamming and turn around to see Mrs. Jorgenson heading over to us across the backyard. She’s wearing some super classy summer getup. Like, who wears khaki shorts with a belt? She must not buy her clothes at the Fallas Paredes or the Wal-Mart like the rest of us, that’s for sure.
    â€œHi!” she shouts way too loudly. “Well, look at who I’ve spotted!” Like I’m a rare bird or something.
    â€œHi, Mrs. Jorgenson,” I say.
    â€œHello, Caroline!” Her smile is really big and