My story doesn't start so dramatically.

My story starts across the country from Rachel, on a tiny island off the coast of Mayne. My story starts with me crouching outside the sunbaked wall of a ramshackle farmhouse.

I don't want to brag, but I moved a square of plywood from the stone foundation like a boss ... then winced at the stench wafting from the crawlspace.

"There’s going to be spiders," I said.

My best friend, Dewitt, was leaning against the pickup in the gravel driveway behind me. He said, "You’re not afraid of spiders."

"There’s going to be sewage," I told him.

"Well, the pipe broke." Dewitt scratched his stomach under his Cupcake ZombieT-shirt. "You want Mrs. Reuter living in her own filth?"

"You’re the plumber."

"Handyman," Dewitt told me. "And you’re the apprentice handyman."

I snorted. Being a few years younger than Dewitt, he liked to call me his apprentice. We'd started doing odd jobs around the island in our teens, raking lawns and delivering six-packs. To earn a few bucks, sure, but also to keep busy: our small town lives weren't exactly a thrillride.

Ten years later, we fixed boilers and replaced shingles and called ourselves handymen. Still earning a few bucks, still keeping busy.

Still not living a thrillride.

"Rock paper scissors?" I suggested. To decide who'd crawl under the house.

"You cheat."

"How do I cheat at rock paper scissors?"

"There’s no telling, a guy like you." Dewitt ran his fingers through his messy curls. "You want to head to Portland after we’re done?"

"I can’t."

He sighed. "You need some time away from the Rock."

That’s the name of the island where we lived, 'Little Big Rock,' a flyspeck off the coast of Portland, Mayne. One paved road, one store, and twenty-seven permanent inhabitants.

"I’ve got to cook dinner for Miss Corene," I said. "Besides, we went to Portland last week."

"We didn’t stay overnight."

"Is that what this is about? You want hook up with some girl and--"

"You haven’t even looked at a girl since Maddie left." Dewitt shook his head mournfully. "Eleven months, bro. That’s not right. You’ve got to open the valve."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

I stared at the crawlspace. Maddie. "How is she?"

"She’s fine, we should visit her. Carve a few weeks out of our busy schedule."

"Yeah, me and you in the big city."

Even if we headed to New Park City--which was a six or eight hours drive, and twice that on the bus--we couldn’t stay away from the Rock for weeks on end, anyway. Nobody could say away for that long, not since the Seventeen Seconds and the Storm. Well, nobody except Maddie. Dewitt's sister, my ex, the only girl I'd ever loved.

The rest of us islanders started getting itchy after ten days or so. We started feeling sharp jabs of pain a week later. And if we didn't return soon thereafter … well, nobody knew. Nobody was volunteering to guinea pig that particular experiment. We just hauled ass back to the Rock when we started feeling invisible papercuts on our skin.

For a moment, neither Dewey nor I spoke; nothing needed saying between best friends. He knew how I felt about Maddie. He knew how she felt about me, too. The autumn wind rose and shoved the trees around. A fresh coastal breeze blew the crawlspace stench away, and brought the distant scent of barbeque.

Dewitt sniffed the air. "That’s Gustav’s grill. What’re you making Corene for dinner?"

I lived in Miss Corene's converted barn. She was eighty-seven, so I helped with her shopping and cooking and cleaning, and never quite remembered not to call her 'Miss' Corene like I had when I was a kid.

"Cornflake roasted chicken," I said.

"With cornflakes?"

"Hence the name," I told him. "I'm changing a recipe from Gourmet. The cornflakes add a hint of sweetness."

"You are such a girl."

"Does that mean you’re going to mooch off Gustav instead?"

Gustav owned the General Store with his wife Trish. He was the postmaster and she was the mayor--or maybe the other way around. They switched back and forth every few years.

"You know I can't resist barbeque," Dewitt told me. "Now how about fixing that pipe?"

"Well, I’m not going to make Mrs. Reuter do it herself."

"You're a prince, Lark."

That’s my deepest, darkest secret--my name is ‘Lark.’ And even worse, my last name is Larson. Lark Larson. Like Fred Flintstone or Peter Piper. Still, my parents had wanted to call me ‘Skylark,’ so I count my blessings. Well, and I bless my sister Simone, who’d convinced them to drop the ‘sky.’

‘Larson,’ on the other hand, was my own fault. It was Simone’s married name, which I'd taken after I woke from the coma after the Storm. I'd rather have her last name than our parents'. Just one more thing that Rachel Kravitz and I had in common, changing our names. I only wish that Simone had married-and-divorced a woman named Anderson or Smith. 'Lark Anderson' is way less ridiculous than Lark Larson.

"On the other hand …" Dewitt tossed a pebble against the wall. "I'm kind of feeling lunch break."

"It’s not even eleven," I said

He shook his shaggy head. "You know what your problem is? You’re prosaic."

"I'm prosaic?"

"Lacking in imagination and spirit."

"I know what it means, Dewey."

"There's no poetry in your soul. That’s your problem." He tossed another pebble. "Also, the new ale’s done."

Dewitt brewed his own beer, and dreamed of starting a microbrewery: Little Big Brewing. He’d never gotten farther than taste tests, though. And he'd appointed me his apprentice taste tester.

"I thought we were against making Mrs. Reuter live in her own filth," I told him.

"Filth builds character."

I laughed and clasped his outstretched hand, and he yanked me to my feet. We got into the pickup but didn't drive away. We just looked at each other. We couldn't leave this mess for Mrs. Reuter.

Dewitt grabbed a quarter from the ashtray. "Call it."

"Heads."

He flipped, then opened his hand. "Tails."

"Two out of three," I said.

He flipped the coin again. I called heads again.

He opened his hand again … and grinned.

Two minutes later, I was crawling into the stench under the farmhouse.

I know that's not a thrilling way to start my story, but it was how I spent my days. Building stone fences and digging holes, hauling trash and hanging with Dewitt. Missing Maddie. Living a cramped little life on a cramped little island.

Until the kidnapping.