Chapter 1: The Night My Cousin Vanished

My older cousin went out night fishing last night—and by morning, he still hadn’t come back. But my eight-year-old cousin sat on the living room carpet, hugging her stuffed bear, insisting he’d never left.

The way she said it, arms folded stubbornly and her nose scrunched up, made me stop in my tracks. She was sitting cross-legged on the faded rug, clutching that threadbare bear like it could protect her from the world. The living room still smelled like fried catfish and hushpuppies from dinner, the whir of the ceiling fan cutting through the sticky air. On the TV, a muted Braves game flickered, ignored by the adults huddled in the kitchen. Nobody was talking. Outside, the night pressed in—thick, heavy, and full of things nobody wanted to say out loud.

Right after she finished, Grandpa Joe burst onto the porch, out of breath and wild-eyed. His boots pounded the warped floorboards, and his ballcap sat crooked from the sprint. He was panting so hard I thought he might keel over. "Y’all need to come quick—he’s out cold up at the cemetery and won’t wake for nothing!" he shouted, voice raw. The urgency hit the grown-ups like a slap. Mom dropped her dish rag, hands shaking. Uncle’s coffee splashed onto the linoleum. For a heartbeat, the house was dead silent—then panic kicked in. "Get the truck, now!" Grandpa Joe barked. Suddenly, everyone was moving—snatching up jackets, keys, and the old Maglite from the junk drawer. In this town, news like that didn’t wait till morning.