The early evening air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as Scott trudged along the edge of the Hawkins woods, flashlight swinging gently in one hand, a thermos clutched in the other.

The soft crunch of leaves underfoot was punctuated by distant murmurs of other searchers, a low hum of anxious voices and nervous laughter trying to mask the fear that gripped the town. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and offered a quick, reassuring smile to a couple of parents who passed him by, though they didn’t pause to notice.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in bruised purples and oranges, fading toward the first stars of evening. Scott’s breath fogged in the chill, and he welcomed the occasional sharp breeze, a reminder that he was still alive, still able to help. He had spent the better part of the afternoon mapping out possible paths Will might have wandered, mentally running through the trails and hollows he knew from hikes and camping trips, from times he had tried to instill in his students the thrill of discovery and the discipline of observation.

He paused to squat beside a clump of low ferns, scanning the ground for any disturbance in the soil, any trace of movement that might hint at where Will had been.

A broken twig, a scuff mark in the mud—small signs that could mean something, or nothing at all. Scott’s eyes, usually lively in the classroom when explaining chemical reactions or physics tricks, were now sharp and calculating in a way that belied the worry behind them. Every step was measured, every sound weighed.

From somewhere deeper in the woods came the faint yelp of a dog, quickly silenced by the rustle of wind and branches. Scott straightened, scanning the shadows, and reminded himself not to let panic creep in. Fear wouldn’t help anyone.

Calm, precise observation might.

His flashlight beam flicked across the bark of towering oaks, across moss-covered roots, and for a moment, he imagined he saw a small figure dart between the trees. The thought made his chest tighten, but he forced himself to inhale slowly, focusing instead on the task at hand: methodical, patient searching.

A crackle from a walkie-talkie broke the silence, voices overlapping in hurried, fragmented phrases. Scott caught bits and pieces: a direction, a name, an “over here” that sounded urgent. He adjusted the dial on his flashlight and set off in the new direction, following the sound while keeping his steps light and careful. Every rustle in the underbrush made him tense, a reflexive reaction born from years of teaching and years of caring, years of wanting to make a difference.

He rounded a bend and found a small clearing where a few other volunteers had gathered, their faces drawn tight with concern, hands shading their eyes against the failing light. Scott nodded a brief greeting and crouched near the edge of the clearing, scanning the undergrowth again, his mind running through scenarios: the ways Will might have tried to navigate alone, the hazards he could have encountered, the patterns of small animals and how they might obscure or reveal a trail. Science, reasoning, observation—all tools that suddenly felt far more urgent than any classroom experiment.

The wind picked up again, and Scott’s flashlight beam caught a ripple in the trees, something almost imperceptible, a faint glimmer of movement. He froze, heart hammering—not from fear, but from that sharp, instinctive hope that maybe, just maybe, it was a clue.

Kneeling, he leaned forward, careful not to disturb anything, and murmured to himself, a quiet habit he’d never quite lost: “Okay… let’s see what you’ve got.”

And then Scott began moving again, slowly, deliberately, every step an effort to combine patience with urgency, every glance a search for the slightest anomaly, the smallest hint, driven by a determination that had little to do with science now and everything to do with humanity.