Mugs reached the dried-out stump and kicked it, perturbed at the lack of a scrawny boy with a notebook of dreams sitting atop it. He examined the stump and found nothing, but after squatting and scanning the surrounding dirt he confirmed his theory. There were fresh swirls of fine dust that had been disturbed recently from sandals dragging back and forth. He imagined the kid sitting there, writing, humming some tune a bard had strummed in the last bar they had drinks, scraping his feet on the ground. He had no doubt that the boy had been here. But if he wasn’t here and Shin hadn’t seen him at the hideout then where the hell was he?

And then he saw the blood.

Mugs’ heart jumped a little at the sight. On one of the twisting roots of the stump was not dried but fresh blood. It was a small trail that dripped into a little well, a crevice tucked under the stump. Mugs crouched lower and his hand went to the short pistol tucked into his boot. It wasn’t just a drop of blood but it wasn’t significant either. Whatever this was, it worried him. If it were self-inflicted there would’ve been either a cursing boy bandaging his wound back at camp or there would be a body. Mugs had neither. He needed Shin out here now.

It didn’t take Mugs long to get back to dodging pieces of debris, picking his way back to their hideout. When he was in sight of Shin he saw the man was already standing with what Mugs understood as worry on his nearly unreadable face.

“Something happened,” Shin said plainly.

“Something did happen.” Mugs stormed quickly past Shin. “I need you to come with me.” He banged on the tin wall where the others were huddling inside. “Thomas, get out here!” When the wiry man poked his head out the ramshackle door, Mugs pointed at the direction he had found the stump. “Shin and I are headin’ out for the kid. I need all o’ you on your toes. Thomas, you’re on duty.”

“What’s goin’ on?” Thomas squinted. “He dead or somethin’?”

“No.” Mugs glared at him. “He’s not dead. Put the others on alert and just keep your eyes open. This is serious.”

“’Course.” The other man tapped the door frame with his fist. “You can count on me, bossman.” He ducked back inside.

Mugs turned to Shin. “You ready?”

“Always.”

It didn’t take them too long to reach the stump. Mugs wasn’t worried too much about the crew: despite Thomas’ casual attitude, he was dependable in every tight situation Mugs had found themselves in. The rest were an interesting bunch, but they knew how to follow orders.

The rain was a steady patter. It worried Mugs, but Shin was unfazed. He was crouching next to the stump when he pushed two fingers into a crevice and pulled them away, their tips sticky with the blood Mugs had found. “When did you find this?” The man asked.

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

Shin stared at the blood a little longer before wiping it on the stump. “You just missed him.”

Mugs swore. “Well where do you think he ran off to?”

“He didn’t run…” Shin circled the stump. He tread carefully, looking intensely, silently at the dirt. He traced the swirls where the boy had kicked his feet about, trailed his eyes along paths Mugs couldn’t see himself. After a minute of deliberation Shin froze as if something had caught his attention. He whistled and beckoned to Mugs without looking up. “Yes, he did not run.”