It’s weird how things happen at the same time. It makes them seem significant. I don’t know if it means anything, but I got the idea to try the number on Maxwell’s tag again, with our area code, 415, as we were running back to camp. I thought we should tell the owner that we had lost him. So while Anselm was telling his mom and dad about the cave, I took my Mom’s cell phone from the solar charger in the main camper and dialed the number I had memorized over those summer months.

Most of you know I tried the number. What I’m going to tell you now is something I only ever told one person: Anselm, after his slip last year, before he died. I told him because I wanted him to live. And I’m telling you now for the same reasons.

I didn’t get an out-of-service message, like I told you guys back then. Someone answered the phone. A … male. On the third ring.

He said, “Hello Marie. I love you. The cave is good. Be in the cave. Sniff out the cave. Stay. Stay. Marie Good Boy Stay.”

I said, “Who is this?”

What I heard was a snuffling, sniffing noise. It sounded like laughter. Then he said, “I love you. I am Good Boy Go. I go. You stay. I love you. I love you. Be safe. Stay.”

You guys remember what it was like when Anselm told them about the cave. The camp was erupting with excitement and discussion, people were running around grabbing things. I didn’t understand – none of us kids understood then – how much danger we were in. There I was, in the middle of all of that movement, frozen to the spot. Because I knew. Sure as I knew the smell of the top of his head, sure as I knew the sound of his snores in our tent at night.

“Maxwell?” I said.

“Marie Good Boy Stay. Be safe.” he said.

“Maxwell, where are you? I’m scared and I want you here,” I said. “Please come back.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you,” he said.

That’s when the line went dead.

A text came in, the last text any of our parents ever received. I stood there with my mom’s phone in my hands, staring at that message. I thought it was from Maxwell, at first. But it was from George Amberson. Our neighbor. The first to leave. It read, simply, “Safe. Come soon. We have room. Use the cave.”

That’s when I remembered, months too late, what I was supposed to tell my mom.

She was nice, she hugged me and thanked me and went to tell the other parents.

It was only later, when she thought I was asleep, that I heard her breathing funny and realized she was sobbing.

[Author’s note: this post was originally the end of Part III, but I moved it to stand alone. Apologies if this skews your experience, but I had to re-structure slightly. Thanks for reading, and I welcome your comments.]