Mabel awoke to sprinklers on Candy's lawn sometime in the afternoon. Laid out front, mouth agape, one shoe missing and what looked to be vomit in her hair; it wasn't. Mind fuzzy, eyes cracked to the brutal sting of day-light. A bike rode past on the sidewalk, clinging its bell as a sign of greeting before riding away. When she finally decided to sit up- head pounding, teeth aching, the odd weight of her tongue pressed flat against the floor of her mouth- there wasn't so much a stir in her mind; flashes of last night.

Mabel recalled a few glasses; maybe a boy here and there. Pacifica had known next to no one, though directed where to sit, who to commute with, what to drink. It'd been a pleasant night, even with Candy's initial interrogation of "Is your brother with you? He'd better not be." And a searing glance when Mabel had replied "No." Since she often lied to smuggle Dipper in like drugs to a trenchcoat. Yet, when Candy badgered Pacifica on the same matter, and the blond squarely snarked her to buzz off, she had no other choice but to sigh- give one last wary, cautionary glance- before allowing entry.

It'd been fun for as little as Mabel could remember, though hardly worth what felt like acid turning her brain to gas in the morning. She groaned heartily, massaging her temple like tender meat.

"Oooooh ." Mabel moaned; her breath stank of Pilsner. She didn't even like Pilsner, though she had liked the boy who'd offered her a bottle.

"Cheese and rice." She rolled across the lawn, mowing down plastic cups, discarded cans, and TP, wet and punctured by blades of grass, which pricked like needles to Mabel's cheeks. She stumbled to her feet, looking and feeling like shit.

"Paz." Her hand connected with Candy's door frame, slapping impatiently at the sturdy material. Mabel's head began to sway on her neck, heavy as it was, before resting peacefully against maple wood. She rang the doorbell.

"Paaaaazzzzzzz." Mabel called out to her friend, finger buzzing rapidly. " Let's gooooooo."

Her legs felt paper-thin, propping her up on stilts. Not a thing of food in her system, which only worsened the tight turn of her gut, encouraging what could've been a growl of hunger or a warning sign before excessive vomiting. The kind of emptiness that couldn't be determined until tested. Mabel's stomach made a vengeful twist, giving birth to her impatience.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease!" All she needed was a ride home. The Shack was a quarter-mile away; a quarter-mile she was not about to walk in this condition. Mabel began to tilt.

Padding feet- a sharp, drawn out mewl- led up to answer the front door. Candy stood propped against the doorframe, eyeglasses cracked, last night's clothes rumpled to hell with a mug of coffee in hand, spilt. She blinked twice, slow.

"Ma...bel?" There was a croak to her tone. Something loose and scratchy that couldn't have been anything but fatigue and a body running on low. Candy tried to smile, only for the strain to encourage migraines.

"Where's-" Mabel hiccuped. "Paz-ifiga?"

Candy stared at her a moment; ten miles, looking right through her. She glanced down at her mug, reflective of her gross appearance, then behind her where her mother's grandfather clock stood. Turning back was a slow process, fat and unmaneuverable in her current state, even being a petite thing of a girl.

"It's... Mabel, it's not even four." In the afternoon, she refrained from adding. With the way they'd partied last night, it might as well have been the crack of dawn. Mabel apologised.

"Can you go grab Pacifica? I need to-." A burp this time. "Get home."

Candy shook her head.

"Pacifica flew out for the Bahamas, I think; she left sometime last night."

Dipper would've called Karma, if the news had ever been passed unto him.

"You're kidding ." Mabel gaped, to which Candy could only wince.

"Sorry, Mabel." Her accent had grown softer over the years, toned down by the locals and their slurred habits of tongue, though she retained her roots; a sweet something of foreign descent which usually calmed Mabel, who found Candy's dialect infinitely endearing. Still, hearing her tone- the banging pulse of grief against Mabel's ears, seething over the long ride from Robin's to Candy's, feeling all the more cheated out of last night (being it had been her last), and subconsciously blaming everyone who played a hand in bringing her to that party- made Mabel irritable in frightening speed. She pinched her brow.

"I'd drive you if I could, but my parents took the car." Mabel sucked in a breath through her nose; something like drills shook the front of her skull.

"I-. Yeah, I know..." Mabel replied lowly; rage flaring- peaking- before dipping back pitifully. She didn't have the energy to get upset. "It's okay. Thanks, uh. I'll... see you later then." Her hand went up, limp with a wave, before turning away from Candy entirely, who looked torn with regret, but also too tired to back-track.

"See you next summer." Candy tried, though with hesitation in her voice. They'd grown apart since their first vacation together. People like Pacifica didn't take well to Candy's company, and all contact with Dipper was severed only a year prior, making their friendship a loose one; something one could go with or without. A painful truth. Truth, nonetheless.

Mabel's legs carried her the distance, staggering. The sense of weightlessness in her shoulders wore off as she roundabout the park, while the tight fog funneling its way through her veins flushed out by the time she caught sight of the shack. A quarter-mile really wasn't the worst thing in the world, she reminded herself sometime after up-chucking last night's margarita on the side of the road, in turn easing her stomach and the strange spin of her head. It was a relief seeing her summer home through the break of forest- settling leg muscles and allowing her eyes to droop- up until great-uncle Ford came into view, making wide strides of his gate.

"Oh, rats." Mabel hissed under her breath.

Great-uncle Ford; a man of science. The likes of which went missing long before she or her brother had even been born, and only years ago resurfaced, unexplained. Something along the lines of "Vacationing in Vladivostok for the last few decades," which loosely translated to "The less you know, the better ." He never did explain his absence (Not to the twins, that is). Simply reared his head one evening- breakfast, morning cartoons and a welcomed breeze through the house- to disrupt what Grunkle Stan had worked so hard to create; a new life. It didn't sit too well at the time.

Though Mabel eagerly trusted the man and all his agreeable features- Stan with his head on right- Dipper had been apprehensive; hostile towards great-uncle Ford, who he hadn't so much as seen in a family photo. There was a sort of hardness to the surface of their relationship, in which he'd been tough on Stan for never informing them, Mabel for believing him, and Ford for being the source.

No one could exactly describe what had the boy so wary, so unwelcoming. A natural response, perhaps as someone like he; distrusting in violent ways. He'd rejected the man's very existence, in part because there'd never been any proof of it before meeting.

Still, as family dynamics often went, there came Dipper's curiosity of a man so intelligent- so mysterious- it didn't take long for his resentment to transform into reverence. Great-uncle Ford knew so much, always willing to display the matter. It became infatuating to the young boy; hidden in corridors, listening in on the old man and his rambling nonsense, the likes of Kappas and Dragons, which only spurred Dipper's adventurous skin to itch.

There'd been the initial resistance of intrigue- wanting (and wanting even more) to ask senseless questions for senseless responses- before inevitably giving into his own desires for knowledge. A time after, the boy could fill an entire journal with what he'd been taught, and definitely tried, though he was an anxious one, who- despite being impressively smart- got impatient with how he held his pen, sat, and did little else.

Dipper could do without a journal the way he retained every word, something great-uncle Ford was infinitely fond of as his mentor.

Striding up, the old man made it as far as the front lawn before breaking into a brisk pace. He was composed, if not an ounce concerned. Terribly, terribly concerned; the fretful, silly kind, like ringing hands in the midst of a horror film, or biting nails on a roller coaster. Mabel tried her best to comb out the frizz of her hair and blink away blurred vision; he was more strict than Stan, and while presenting himself as the open-minded explorer he was, held much resentment in the ways of sex and drinking.

"It fuzzes the mind," he'd argued once, to which she and Dipper had mindlessly nodded their heads, though smuggling a liter of Hennessy at the time.

"Mabel!" Ford called out to her, six fingers raised to signal. She willed a smile. He looked stern. "Where've you been? I specifically instructed you to return before late last night."

"Uh... traffic?" Mabel lied; she angled her words low in hopes of warding away the stench of liquor. Ford placed his hand on his hip, rolling a sleeve up to peer at his watch.

"It's almost four; the bouncy-house was only rented out until one."

"Bouncy-house?!" Mabel gasped excitedly, making Ford shake his head.

"You two took so long, we ended up packing everything away by lunchtime." There was an air of satisfaction to his words, the sort that might pat oneself on the back. That should teach Mabel and her brother a lesson, considering the worry it'd brought him and Grunkle Stan (though the other had only shrugged his shoulders, tuned back into his favorite evening soap-opera, cracking a beer with practiced thumbs).

"Aww, what?" Mabel whined. Grunkle Stan really hadn't been kidding about making their birthday special this year, at least in terms of budget. Dammit all, that bouncy house had been at least $8/hr.

"I know, I know. We tried holding off on the wind-down, but your boar got into the cake, and Stan's back did that thing again," That Thing being a strange phenomenon in which it popped out of place, arched as a bow before getting stuck in position, both painful and hilarious to look at. It usually required professional realignment. "It may have been best you weren't here to see it."

"But-... Ugh. Butt-knuckles , really? Is there any cake left at least?"

"I'm afraid Waddles rolled in the remains." Mabel groaned into her hands, crouching in a tired stance.

"W-a-a-a-ddles..." She sighed.

"If it's any consolation, he's on a hard time-out." Mabel sighed again, heavier.

" W-a-a-a-ddles..." Her head sank between her knees.

"Do you need a minute? I assume this news is earth-shattering by your standards." Ford took a step back, hands raised slightly.

"No, I'm-." She started. Something like regret gave her pause. Candy's party hadn't been worth it by a long shot. Drinks and smoke, someone's hand creeping the side of her thigh, waking up sore all over. It didn't hold a candle to balloons, cake and presents; the lesson was late-learned, sadly. And-.

Ugh, walking a quarter mile had been hell in of itself.

But, six?

Okay. She deserved the hangover, the missed birthday, and this tight... something in her chest. Mabel felt bad.

"... just glad everyone had a good time." She mumbled into her knees, willowy and soft. Ford made an odd noise at the back of his throat.

"Not with you two out of the picture." He assured comfortingly. "It didn't have nearly the same atmosphere; rest assured, you and your brother would've been the life of the party." A hand went up- six fingers- to lay peacefully atop Mabel's shoulder. It was a nice feeling (if not a bit patronising) for all of five seconds as she smiled weakly -a gleam to her eyes- before something odd struck the back of her head.

"Wait..." Her eyes shut, crinkled forehead and all, much like Dipper, who was... Mabel willed Ford's hand back. "Dipper wasn't there?"

They stared at each other. Ford looked bewildered, like blinking away sleep. She was a vibrant presence. One often got themselves sucked into her being, sorted like a bubble against the outside world. He hadn't seen it, being the boy rarely spoke first. Now it was a troublingly empty space to her left, where Dipper usually occupied himself.

"No... wasn't he with you?" The answer seemed obvious with the worried look on Mabel's face, accompanied by an uncertain shake of her head.

"He, um... we lost track of him. Last night. And, uh... he wasn't there?" She repeated herself. Pale; pale and guilty . Gravity Falls wasn't half as dangerous a spot, comparably to the kinds of neighborhoods back in their own state; the sort of places they couldn't just meet with friends. Still, the town was paranormal. Unpredictable. Dipper was a magnet for it; a magnet for trouble . Bad things happened when he got too cozy.

The conversation dissolved in a matter of seconds when conclusively- undeniably- the pair came to one, obvious truth: Dipper wasn't around. Not missing, necessarily. Not yet. A guy like him could be gone days without word; in the trees. The woods. Make rent within a thicket of yarrow, a bed of grass, or simply the stuffy build of his "study room," under lock-and-key, far beyond needing a change of clothes afterwards.

He wasn't the camping type, ("Roughing it," Stan referred, sometime between wiping himself with poison ivy and using squirrel teeth as a substitute can-opener) though often found himself doing just that.

The concern hadn't come from his absence. Rather, Dipper's neglect to inform. He was a consistent creature; Dipper always told someone he'd be gone, especially if he intended on staying overnight. Which he had .

It was troubling.

[...]

Dipper's phone must've been turned off, Mabel concluded after her thirteenth failed attempt trying to reach him. He did that sometimes. To conserve energy. Reach them when he needed to, which- in that moment- felt ridiculously selfish a thing, especially with grunkle Stan's voice weaving its way from the kitchen into the living room.

"Yeah, no. They-... Ha! You know kids. Couple a' knuckle-heads you got on your hands... Sure, sure, they're fine... Alright, relax Miriam. The bus'll make its routes again next week, okay? I'll-... Yeah, I get it. Look, they're just dying to get back to that hormone-infested jungle you call high school, let me tell you... Hey, what's one more week of summer gonna hurt the poor kids? They could do with a little more outdoors and a few less ballet lessons, if you get what I'm saying... Alright, alright. Sorry . Yeesh."

In the living room, curled at the edge of a couch, watching (slow, drawn, please stop descending so fast) sun turn to moon from the view of a framed window. A few hours. Ford attested to making his rounds about the forest and farther; Dipper often kept to the path his grunkle drew out for him, though few were disillusioned his tendency to veer, the curious thing. Ford came back late. Tiredly toed off his boots, slid off the jacket, and appeared (just a bit) concerned. Mabel was quick to address him in his withered state.

"Any luck?" She leaned over the arm of the couch. The old man winced.

"He wasn't in the meadows. Man-I-Tours haven't caught a whiff of him. Nothing from the fairy tavern. The mer-folk say they'll keep an eye out, but... No one's seen him since as early as yesterday morning."

"What about the-?"

" Gnomes? Got my hands on a charmed search-warrant just to make sure. Nothing."

Which... wasn't bad, really. It didn't have to be bad. Dipper could take care of himself. Regardless, Stan was getting an ear-full from their parents, who couldn't quite wrap their heads around how the twins had missed their bus. The bus which was scheduled to drive them back to Piedmont before school. The bus which was very, very important for their return, and how do you just miss that kind of a bus?

There was a grunt from the kitchen right before Stan sauntered into the living room, fast about plopping into his recliner.

"Welp, your parents 're pissed. Also , maybe contacting CPS. They called me a ' terrible caretaker ' who 'shouldn't be allowed around children .' What a joke."

Stan was (thankfully) taking the matter in strides; his nephew was tough. Resourceful. All the searching and worrying wouldn't do anyone much good, being the kid had a way of going off the grid. Not your average rough-and-tumble, how Stan had been in his youth. A real scavenger, though. Knew the lay of the land in that big brain of his, with a kind of determination that'd only let Dipper die out of spite for someone. On the wimpier side of the spectrum, but (come five, maybe ten years) he'd be a real spectacle. Stan wasn't concerned.

"Have you heard back from Sheriff Blubbs yet?" Ford inquired. Stan waved him off.

"That guy? He probably got distracted making finger-puppets. Took a nap. Missing-person report got him all tuckered out."

"Then nothing. They haven't found him yet." Stan made an affronted sound to Ford's solemn tone.

"Geez , Ford. Don't go digging his grave." His head knocked back harshly. "The kid took a few wrong turns on one of his little nature walks; so what? Dipper's always been fine against those uni-jerk, pixie-dust-whatever's."

"Monsters aren't the only thing out there, Stanley."

To that, Stan snorted; Mabel was staring holes into the side of his skull, lower lip chewed up to the chin. Ford was straightforward to a fault. He didn't have the kind of sensibility for handling kids, nor an understanding of just what was happening. There wasn't much to be done about it. Still, irritation pinged Stan's nose, by which he had to pinch in response to Ford's blatant ignorance.

He wouldn't get losing a sibling. He wouldn't get it. Juggling the supernatural was one thing. Dousing someone with the "Real World" was a whole other topic of discussion, and bringing potential child abduction to a table of dragons and centaurs just didn't fit.

"Cool your glasses, Sixer. Dipper got lost." Out the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mabel loosening her posture. "He's probably having the time of his life, domesticating dragons, flying off into the sunset."

"He's missing." Ford hissed.

"What? You want the kid wearing diapers?"

"I want him to be safe."

"Sure, sure. Mr. ' Lab Safety's' got his mind set on toddler-proofing the Shack. I forgot."

"I do not," Ford began, disgruntled. No. Stan was not about to drag him down to his level. He composed himself. "What I'm saying is we should try taking this seriously."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa . Who's not serious? I'm serious." Stan jabbed a thumb at himself. "I've got this whole situation locked in; number one thing on the noggin." He tapped his temple smuggly.

"Then you should know we need to consider the possibility of a kidnapping."

" Kidnapping?" Mabel gasped, clutching her chest. Stan hushed her.

"Don't listen to him, sweetie. He's in one of those moods."

Ford cut in. "I mean it. You never know who he could've run into last night."

"What? Lazy Susan? Manly Dan? Ol' Man McGucket? You think one of those bozos potato-sacked our nephew? Seriously?" Great-uncle Ford tried to object, sliced off by his brother's gruff tone. "Look, you wanna play ' Concerned Grunkle ' in your little mystery novel? Go ahead; I'm just keeping it real."

"What's not real about what I just said?" Ford was tense, a creek about his jaw where he bit down tight against his tongue, nearly drawing blood. His brother... Oh, his brother got him boiling. Stan huffed.

"Well, if you don't see it, then I'm not telling you."

Ford stared at Stan. Stan pretended to watch TV. Clenching his fists, gaze set, feet planted, the man puffed his chest.

"I'm going back out to scan for clues, and if you have even a molecule of care for Dipper, you'll be right there by my side."

To be clear, Stan knew the kids way before Ford had. Before-walking times. And he, without a doubt, cared for his nephew and niece. A lot . A lot more than Ford , that was for sure. That old wind-bag just loved playing the hero, of course. It really got him going to think he'd be saving some damsel in distress, or kitten stuck in a tree, or his goddamn "mentee" from a van of drug-toters. Stan seethed at the thought. Mr. Goody-toe-shoes at it again, blowing things out of proportion.

"Kidnapped."

Ugh.

Stan glared at him (Heat; wide and overcast), only to snort.

"Aye aye, Captain Four Eyes." Back to the TV. Ford restrained from biting, instead busying himself with the collar of his sweater.

"Everyone's already got their eyes peeled in town; someone'll call if they find anything." He walked towards a chair to slide his coat away, back over his shoulders. Dramatic with a flare to the base. Stan rolled his eyes.

"Then what're we expected to do?" Ford relocated his boots.

"We'll hit the roads outside Gravity Falls' borders; a Harpy could've carried him north to feed their young."

" What?!" Mabel jerked from her seat. Ford was quick to reassure his niece.

"Dipper's too thin a prey. If something did scoop him up, it probably released him after realizing how light he was." That was not the correct response, apparently.

"It dropped him?!" Mabel gaped. The old man sighed tiredly, raised hands batting her overactive imagination down; she was an explosive kind of reaction.

"It's fine. He's fine. Listen, Stan and I'll go out to scan the roads for any sign of him; you know how he loses his hat."

Mabel held out hope to that. She often found herself stumbling over said hat, being it wound up someplace new every so often, never too far from its owner. It didn't rightfully fit him. Nearly nothing, she rationed, fit him. Everything he owned was a size too big, from shirts to sweats. Dipper was a growing boy after all. It was hard to keep up, considering only two years back he'd barely been five foot; now it seemed he was nothing but legs.

A comforting thought, really. She could mend all this once he was found; he'd forget the whole ditching-thing after catching a glimpse of her apology-sweater, no doubt.

The grunkles bade her farewell a time after, the moon a heavy caution to wildlife, beasts of all sorts. Ford gave her one steady-gripped shoulder, surfacing faux smiles and all. Stan only grunted, fingers ruffling her hair before reminding (clicked index to thumb) to keep her hands off his stash of bourbon.

Mabel nodded once, lying. The old man knew just as well, but couldn't quite decide if liquor would calm his niece's nerves or drag her farther into concern, so decidedly removed himself from the equation all together; she could make her own decisions. Some stern instruction to lock the doors ("don't answer to anyone") before disappearing into the night, tail-lights burning lines like smoke.

[...]

Dipper paced the floors when he got nervous. He was an anxious thing of a boy. When questioned on the matter, he often suggested the motions filtered his mind like moving cogs throughout the body. An irrigation of sorts, leaking from him a burnt heat of pressure. He only ever spoke of the nightmares vaguely, scratching and scratching still the veins of his left arm until Mabel begged him to stop talking all together. Dipper could work himself into a real frenzy up until the pacing began, at which point he eased like pacifying a child. Pacing seemed to do wonders for him.

So, why the hell was it making Mabel feel worse?

"He'll be fine... He'll be fine." Her hands rang out, itching like ants to skin where her knuckles couldn't help but spasm, forcing a nervous giggle from her throat. She combed the curls out of her hair into a mess of frizz; locks of locks of locks, twirled between fingers- split ends. She needed a trim. Mabel noticed, hyper fixating, and tore the strands apart, farther down a middle-road. Now like two hairs, not one. Her hands, to keep from jittering, worked through groves to separate splits; make them permanent. It only filled her with remorse.

" Dipper's... You know him. He-. Does this sometimes." Her pacing was a matter of ticking. It built energy like shuffling feet over shagged carpet. A bolt of electricity. Pulsing, pulsing within her, unlike Dipper, who required pacing to expel some sort of rock from his belly; work it until the boulder became more like sand and simply sifted into nothing. She didn't know the difference. Only became frustrated at her rise in nerves, an excess of prickling flesh between thighs. Mabel pulled the window blinds apart once, near-mad waiting for her grunkles to return.

Well, it wasn't really her fault. Not really. If she followed the red string connecting present to past (Mabel concluded), it was actually kind of his fault. Not to say it was his fault. But, if it had to be someone's... Dipper knew better than to get himself lost, especially so far out from town. He knew better.

The issue was bad blood between Candy and he, who'd played games for the first time in his life, and (horrifyingly so) was surprisingly coy by nature, though alluring like spider-webs. It wasn't Mabel's fault. That hadn't been on her, Dipper and his summer-antics; roadside attractions and the pretty women who accommodated it.

He could take care of himself, if he had it in him to take care of her. The thought settled something deep and swollen, but less a release, and more a puncture. Her pacing spread up the steps, carrying her mindlessly through the house. She came to a spot before Dipper's bed; not sitting, but wearing a trench into the wooden floor. A steady line from one side of the room to the other, weaving her way around scattered clothes; he hadn't packed before his disappearance.

He hadn't expected to disappear at all.

Mabel swallowed the thought and all it insinuated, trying to distract herself from what great-uncle Ford had suggested.

"Kidnapped."

But, God. That sounded too surreal. She shook her head of the thought entirely, instead adopting a mantra that hopelessly reevaluated her decision to shelve her brother. What had she been expected to do back at the diner? Wait for him? On the last night of her summer vacation? Selfish of him, if he ever suggested she throw it out. A righteous flame bloomed behind her chest, considering the scenario. Eventually, she became half-way convinced, as well as a tad wound. It hadn't been her fault.

Pacing turned to stumbling. Stumbling to groaning. She made herself something to eat, only to realize her appetite was corrosive and vacant. Mabel pushed her bowl of whatever away, motioning for the front porch. A black night; light pollution was a steady, potent poison to the land. She leaned her shoulder out, hoping to appease her legs which still pumped with a need for motion. The girl denied it, instead gazing out into darkness.

"Come on, Dipper. Come on." She pleaded into the trees. Her lower lip quivered only an instance before settling. Mabel didn't often worry like this. She didn't often sense something amidst. The crawl of slipping between layers, invading the very fabric of their existence, Dipper and her. Last, it'd only been great-uncle Ford stepping into frame; a confusingly warm sensation, tingling rings of clove under her nose, oil rubbing the knees, redesigning the family dynamic to accommodate his presence.

This was different, somehow. The invasion was less a simple change, and more a perversion. A raping of their bond. Something off about his disappearance. She couldn't quite shake the feeling from where it rose under her armpits and below the eyes.

It became late. Midnight or beyond. Peering into blackness, a creeping electricity zapped beyond her veins, freeing chills throughout the body. Someone could easily get lost within the forest. The hoot of an owl, a snapping twig, before something deeper- something predatory- let out a growl. One might feel closed off from civilization, though she couldn't rightfully see it bothering Dipper.

He might lay his head down though, in a patch of honey suckles and thyme, only to stare into the abyss, and receive a stare back. The image sent shivers down her spine, which she was incapable of soothing away. Her brother might not even realize he's in danger until it's too late. He often overstayed his welcome. Cold in the breast of her soul, Mabel retreated back inside.

It's a wonder she forced herself to sleep on the couch, awaiting her grunkles' return. Empty stomach, winded mind, an intrusion of flesh weaving fingers through the intricate dimensions of her skin, pulling piece by piece something she couldn't whole-heartedly describe. How did she sleep that night? Restlessly. When she laid herself out, warry and self-righteous a thing, repeating the little prayer her dad often spoke over them as babes.

Our father,

Who art in heaven-.

Mabel couldn't quite remember the rest.

[...]

Perhaps she should've expected it, all considering the grim looks on their faces. It certainly set something off balance within herself; persisted she drew back, away, and inward. Yet, present as they were, Mabel couldn't help but bear fruit to her own concern. She flooded them the morning of- not even the crack of dawn- with questions of their investigation. Where they'd gone. Who they'd seen. Who they hadn't. She had white crust off the side of her mouth, a smile both tight and crooked.

Mabel asked the obvious, which was if they'd found him, though she knew they hadn't. Great-uncle Ford had a palm covering his eyes though, and Stan went off someplace downstairs, having bitten his knuckles to hell, and if Mabel didn't ask something, she feared the worst would rear its head before words could prevent it. So, they hadn't found him. That didn't mean anything. It didn't have to.

A few more days of searching, and they'd find Dipper wedged between serpents, or being serenaded by sirens; they enjoyed his company, the stream just east of the shack, where he often documented their mischievous nature and- when pulling forth a notepad and pen- had the conceited sirens scrambling to pose for his analytical sketches.

She spoke. Ford looked to be in pain, and when he placed a hand on her shoulder, silencing, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears. They hadn't found him. What's more, they'd found something else entirely.

Caked in mud, dirt burrowed into the lining of its case, was Dipper's phone. Mabel took the device in hand, more silent than she'd been before. It still turned on after charging, miraculously enough. She tried to find that interesting. Mabel tried to find anything other than the dread in her stomach to distract herself. Even knowing- having physical proof in the palm of her hand- something was terribly wrong, she couldn't believe it.

"... what is this?" Her great-uncle cringed, a grimace bleeding through the skin. He shook his head once, only to apologize. For what, she didn't know. Not when he reached out to grasp her hand, only to pull away at the last minute. Not when the man rubbed the dry stubble of his chin, limp and lifeless, or redirected his gaze outside, where the sun had begun to rise. He sucked in a breath, trying to steady the sharp beat of his heart.

They'd already agreed, he and Stan, that Ford should break the news. One might call Stan a coward, especially in his refusal to maintain his own niece's pure, hopeful gaze, curl into her like he was supposed to, and be there to let her know everything would be alright.

But, he just didn't know anymore.

His stash of bourbon hadn't been touched. He drained it away, sorrow-bitter and cursing his own ignorance. Stan may have been thick-skulled, but never disillusioned how they'd grown into themselves over the years; Mabel, bright smiles with hair that draped the shoulders. Dipper, dark eyes, all legs. Someone would want them for it, but the thought never prompted itself how badly.

It surely did then, only an hour before, when they'd stumbled upon his phone. Mud, mud and tracks, deep and since dried from the sun. Hand prints padded into earth. What looked to be knees sunken low, shuffling in a way that roved; searched. The phone had only been about two feet off, half-tipped out in the open air, though rain and night could easily shield it away. Stan snorted at first, thinking it partially hilarious how close Dipper had probably been to stumbling upon his device.

Then he tripped. Let out a pained grunt, turning onto his back to see what caused him the fall. There, he and his brother froze.

A solid outline. Deep, crisp with exact prints. Intact, even after rainfall, and comically sunken.

Tire marks.

Dipper's footprints led up towards the tracks, close, and then they were gone.