Essential Maps for the Lost by Deb Caletti Page A

shields her eyes with her free hand so she can see better, but then she stops all the hesitating and wavering and heads for the stairs. She hurries, walking with intent, because he’ll be gone in a second, and if it’s him, it’s the most important coincidence of her life. Sure, we’re talking about a ten-mile radius circling William’s life and Mads’s, but never mind. Cynicism is for cowards.
    Mads wants to see if it’s him, but also, she has to see. Ivy grabs a handful of her hair and tugs, but Mads barely notices. Wait. He seems to be looking her way. Is he? Is it even him? She still can’t tell. With eyes like that, she should never drive without her glasses! If she doesn’t get a move on, he’ll disappear.
    But look. He’s changing direction. Suddenly, too. He’s running! Rushing toward the stairs like there’s some kind of emergency, and with all those dogs. One of them is as big as a sheep. What a disaster. It’s a bloody mess , as her London-born father would say.
    The guy is at the top of the stairs. The leashes are wound around his legs, and the dogs are barking their heads off, and he stops to untangle everyone. One of the dogs squats right there, and the guy has to dig a plastic bag out of the back pocket of his jeans. There’s the briefest pause to take care of business, and then they descend. Why he’s in such a hurry, she can’t begin to say. It’s calm at the park. One of the twins chases a goose who hops away, bored with that old game. As the guy and those dogs barrel down the steps, though, everyone stops to look. The twins, the goose, the man eating his lunch, who watches the chaos with half of his sandwich stopped midair.
    How they make it down without him breaking his neck, Mads has no idea. She is busy being frozen in place. There are three reasons for this: One, anyone would be shocked at this commotion. Two, it is most definitely William Youngwolf Floyd barreling in her direction with a cyclone of dogs. Three, it has suddenly occurred to her that she is the reason for his haste. He must know who she is. The girl who pulled his mother out of the water. The girl outside his house. The crazy, obsessed stalker, who he’s about to confront.
    Ivy’s eyes are huge. A glossy stalactite of drool drops from the corner of her mouth. “Dah?” she says.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Mads says, though she doesn’t know if this is true. Maybe she should run.
    But she is too compelled to run. They are coming toward her, this unruly gang. William Youngwolf Floyd has one arm raised, and at the end of it is a fistful of leashes, as if he’s hailing the most important taxi of his life. His T-shirt has come untucked, and there are rings of spooked sweat around his underarms. He’s thinner up close. Those dogs could pull him right over, but Mads notices the muscles in his arms, too. His mouth is open. He’s shouting something. She can’t hear him, because it’s loud near that bridge.
    He stops in his tracks. It’s the sort of sudden halt that the phrase is made for, a cartoon slide, which causes all the dogs to ricochet back in a humiliating way. The one in the lead makes a little heck-heck choking sound from the rapid yank of the leash. They bump into each other like a five-car pileup.
    They’re all winded. The big dog has an enormous tongue that lolls out his mouth. William Youngwolf Floyd is right in front of her now, breathing hard. Up close, his dark eyes are something from the universe, a star in reverse, deep and old, black-intense.
    He leans down to catch his breath. One of the dogs sits. He’s a sweet boy, with fur the color of a gingersnap.
    Mads is speechless. She doesn’t know what to do. She is saying silent prayers that he doesn’t know her identity. Her guilt (guilt for the stalking, guilt for her role in such a private family matter) is making her face burn red hot.
    â€œCan I