You Could Be My Compass

Alex was jogging behind his dog, trying his best to keep up. He wasn’t what one would call athletic, not by any means. This scrawny grey mutt was getting the best of him and they hadn’t been gone all that long. Every time they went for a walk, Alex was always in awe of how quickly that dog could move on the sticks-for-legs that shouldn’t have supported his weight while standing, much less galloping. He had the leash in his hand but it wasn’t connected to the dog’s collar; it made him feel guilty to keep him tethered like that during his rare moments of freedom.

It reminded Alex of his childhood. He was kept on a metaphorical chain for so long that when he caught the slightest scent of freedom, he took it too far and look at the consequences of that. He would never put anyone—not even a dog—through that.

He was seventeen now. The memory of that day from a little over five years ago still haunted him. He spent more time than he cared to admit worrying about the what ifs. What if he hadn’t been paralyzed with fear? What if he’d done something? What if they’d just gotten in the damn car like they were supposed to? What if they’d told their parents the change in plans? What if the men had taken him instead?

Why didn’t they take him? Why Jack? If it was because of the money, then A) they would have known that Alex’s parents were worth more and B) surely there would have been mention of a ransom. But no. They just stole him, not demanding money or anything in return, and drove off.

They still hadn’t found Jack. (As in Barakat, not the dog sprinting ahead of him at a remarkable pace.) When he first went missing, as the media referred to it instead of just saying he was kidnapped, it was a huge deal. The story circulated around the world. News stations in other countries showed his mother sobbing and listed Alex’s description of the men that kidnapped him and always threw in something about, “Jack Barakat is the only son of the well-known…” Yeah. That was the only reason anybody cared. Because of who his dad was.

There was never a sign of him. Alex hadn’t thought to look for the license plate number. He was only twelve at the time, carefree and innocent and trusting. The thought never even occurred to him. After the first few months, the investigation died down. TV stations quit running the story. The local papers still had his picture, and there were signs of the once-active search scattered throughout the city: flyers taped in alleyways with his school picture and have you seen this boy? and the corkboard dedicated to him in the back office of the police station, for example.

And every year on the anniversary of Jack’s disappearance, something of a memorial service was held. Alex never attended. Jack wasn’t dead. He would find his way back one day. Alex was sure of it. He was out there somewhere, and it might take decades, but they would eventually be reunited.

A lot had changed since then. Surprisingly enough, rather than become more strict, Alex’s parents were more lenient than they ever had been. Jack’s parents got a divorce two years ago. The city had adopted new safety measures and had reinforced the idea that schools need to educate children on kidnapping cases and what to do if you or your friend is in danger. (Another big what if is what if he had known, what if he had been old enough to understand what was going on?)

When he started to get over the shock and his parents allowed him to go back to school halfway through seventh grade, Alex had to put an actual effort into making friends. It took a while, but he managed to find a couple of decent ones. They weren’t stand-in best friends like his pets, and they knew they weren’t in the running to become actual best friends. But they were friends and it was nice to have them around sometimes.

Rian, the kid that called him snotty in fourth grade, that was his first real friend after Jack. Like everyone else, he felt sorry for him. That’s how his friendships were born, out of either pity or jealousy. These people, his peers, they wanted to be him and at the same time, they were glad they weren’t him. It was complicated. Rian and Zack were the only ones he could count on, the rest were little more than casual acquaintances.

But Jack would come back and these people would matter less to him. He had to come back because he was alive. Wasn’t he? He was. They hadn’t found him, which led most people to assume the worst. But Alex refused to go along with their way of thinking. The fact that they hadn’t found him yet also meant that they hadn’t found his body. Meaning he wasn’t dead.

He shook his head, trying to keep the thoughts out of his brain. He didn’t want to spend this much-needed time at the park dwelling on things he couldn’t—no matter how much he wished he could—change.

School let out for the summer yesterday, and Alex was enjoying the free time to spend with his stand-in best friend. One of them, anyway. He had a lot. Although this particular stand-in was outrunning him by a longshot. “Wait up!” he called after him, his left leg already starting to cramp. “Jack Skellington, I swear to god if you don’t slow down, I’m going to—”

The dog skittered to a halt, and for a second, Alex thought his words had had an effect and he was actually listening. It gave him enough time to catch up. He crouched next to him, noticing the look of fear in the dog’s eyes. Fear was an emotion he would recognize anywhere. “What is it, Jack?” he whispered, scanning the area and seeing nothing.

But when he glanced around the second time, he saw somebody. A tall, skinny figure. Awkwardly long limbs. Bony. Messy hair. Probably just one of the park’s many homeless inhabitants. In the back of his mind, Alex wondered if a homeless person could truly inhabit a place. Would that render them un-homeless? Homeful? What was the correct term?

He stood up, petting the dog and smiling. “I’m surprised at you. You’re usually not this skittish, Jack. What’s up? Are you getting old?” This was his life, teasing a dog. Just to be clear, he didn’t expect a response. He was lonely, but not that lonely.

He latched the leash back onto his collar. “Wanna head home? You can’t be the only one that gets attention today.” He’d had this dog for four years and was almost as attached to it as he had been (still was) to human-Jack. It always surprised people that the dog wasn’t purebred, but a mix of greyhound and god knows what else. He was scraggly and think as a toothpick and awkward, and absolutely perfect. But Alex’s family had money, so he was expected to have one of those stupid spoiled things that didn’t play or have fun. He liked Jack Skellington much better. Always had. The dog had chosen him, after all. Showed up on heir back porch during a thunderstorm and wouldn’t leave. He’d begged with huge puppy-dog eyes until his parents gave in.

Not that they would’ve said no either way. Especially the first couple of years after Jack was kidnapped, they found it exceedingly difficult to use the word no in Alex’s presence at all. It started with small things: can I sleep in your room tonight? Will you read me a bedtime story? Can I just have ice cream for dinner? They gladly agreed without even hesitating; these requests reminded them of when he was younger and they were happy to be reminded of that time.

Then it turned into bigger, but still grantable, requests: can we go to the police station again? Can I keep this dog?

They finally put their foot down and, fearing his reaction, used the word they’d avoided for so long when he asked if he could go to work with his dad one day soon because they were writing career essays. Yes, that was what they finally had to bring out the word no for. He didn’t understand why they were so adamant over something so seemingly simple, but one look told him to give up.

Only a couple of Jack’s pets were products of their yes-to-anything phase. The rest were his parents’ idea. This loving and loyal mutt was his favorite out of all of them.

Just when they were about to start walking back, the person ahead turned and was facing them.

Was it?

No.

It couldn’t be.

Could it?

The leash slipped from his hand and hit the ground softly. “Jack?” Alex called, his voice desperate and hopeful and disbelieving. “Not you,” he muttered to his dog, whose ears had perked up at what he thought was his name being called.

He took a step forward and his face was in the sunlight now.

Alex’s jaw nearly hit the ground. “No. Way.”