NoahPruitt sees it first, which he'll be reminding me about for the rest of both our lives, one word at a time."Line," he says, and stops walking.It's strung across the deer trail at chest height, pale in the flashlight, thick as a bootlace.I put the back of my knife against it and press. It gives about as much as a fence wire gives, then hums.Spider silk doesn't hum.Spider silk also doesn't anchor twenty feet up two separate spruces with the slack taken out like somebody rigged it on purpose."That's new," Pruitt says."That's a problem," I say, because apparently we’re taking turns stating the obvious.A quarter mile behind us, forty volunteers are walking a grid with whistles and good intentions, looking for Ryan Mercer, nineteen.His car's been sitting at the trailhead for two days, and we knew about it before the town did, because we always do.Which is why the two of us are out front in the dark, and somebody's uncle with a headlamp isn't.I cut the strand.It takes actual
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