As soon as Elliott got home they started researching. It was easy enough to find resources for parents of runaway children, or the runaways themselves, but harder to know what a concerned third party should do. Elliott didn’t want to get the police involved if they could avoid it, and so after an hour or so of googling, they called a reporting line intended for suspected child abuse or neglect.

Elliott once again found themself attempting to explain Puck’s situation to the person who answered the phone. “So I’m not exactly sure if there’s actually abuse or neglect involved, but it definitely seems like something is off with his family situation,” they concluded. 

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before the voice responded, “Alright, well what I can do is take your report and pass it on to Child Protective Services. They’ll take a look and decide if an investigation is needed. I’ll just need to collect some information on the child in question.”

“Alright… I don’t actually know much about him, but I’ll tell you what I can.” 

“That’s fine. What is the child’s name?” the voice asked.

“Oh, well, he goes by Puck, but I don’t think that’s his real name, and I don’t have a last name for him.”

“I see… and how old is he?”

“I’d guess 14 or 15.” 

“And what are his hair and eye color?”

“Black hair… brown eyes? I assume…” Elliott realized they hadn’t really paid attention to this detail. Just one more item on the list of things they didn’t know. 

“Alright. And what is his ethnicity?” 

“Uh…. not sure on that, either.”

There was a pause. “I’ll just mark it unspecified,” the voice offered. “How tall is the child?”

Elliott thought. If they were 5’8” and the kid was a few inches shorter… “Five foot five?” they guessed. 

“Any identifying marks? Birthmarks, scars -- that kind of thing?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“What was he last seen wearing?”

“Oh, uh… a black hoodie and black jeans, I think.” Now that Elliott was trying to describe him, they were finding their memory of the boy to be challengingly fuzzy.

“And where did you say this child currently resides?”

“Vista Park. I usually find him at the top of the hill in the evening.”

Elliott heard the tapping of a keyboard on the other end of the line, and then the voice read off an address. “Is that the address of the park?”

“Um… I think so? Hang on…” Elliott quickly double-checked the address online. “Yeah, that’s it. 

“Thank you. And can you please explain again why you believe this child has been abused or neglected?”

“Well, he won’t go home or talk about his family. Like I said, I’m not sure it’s abuse or neglect exactly, but he’s in a bad situation, and there seems to be some sort of issue with his family, or whoever his guardians are. And I think he might be mentally ill… I’m sorry, I’m not sure who else to call for help,” Elliott finished weakly. 

“Alright, well we’ll see what CPS can do. What’s a good number to reach you at, in case they need to follow up?” the voice asked. Elliott provided the number. 

“Okay,” said the voice, “I’ve submitted your report. Thank you for calling.”

“Oh, uh… thank you,” Elliott stammered. 

“Goodbye, now,” said the voice in a businesslike tone, and the line went dead.

***

Elliott tried to play it cool through their next few visits with Puck, though based on the curious glances they received, they had to assume that they weren’t doing a great job. Then on Monday afternoon they received a phone call while they were at work. They let it go to voicemail, then promptly took a break to step out of the office and return it.

“Hi, my name’s Elliott, I’m returning a call about the kid living at Vista Park,” they explained. 

“Hi Elliott, thanks for calling back. We attempted to make contact with the child in question today, but didn’t find him. We were hoping you could give us some more information,” said the person on the other end. 

“Sure, I can try, but I think I already gave all of the information I have to the last person I spoke with.”

“I understand, but you never know -- there could be some details that didn’t come up before.” The person proceeded to ask a series of questions, none of which Elliott had answers to. “Alright,” they eventually conceded, “well if you get any more information about him, give me a call at this number.”

“I will, thanks. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” Elliott ended the call in disappointment.

***

When Elliott returned to the park that evening, Puck was waiting for them, his eyes blazing.

“You sent someone after me,” he accused. Elliott cringed at the accuracy of the allegation.

“Only because I’m worried about you,” they countered. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not! I’m sorry, but you’re just a kid, you can’t be living alone in a park like this. What are you gonna do when it starts freezing? Or if someone tries to hurt you? You have no idea how sick some people can be!” Elliott was yelling now, but not from anger -- all the fear that had been brewing over the last few weeks was finally spilling over.

“I know a lot more than you give me credit for,” the boy argued, his voice dropping to a low rumble. 

“If anything that just makes me more worried!” Elliott practically shrieked. 

Puck opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a loud Crack! followed by a low creek. Before Elliott had a chance to look for the source of these sounds Puck had shoved him to the ground, and not a moment too soon. A large maple tree which had stood a few feet from the path just seconds before came crashing down, exactly where they’d been having their argument. 

“Oh my god,” Elliott gasped. Puck, who had landed next to them, shifted a branch off of his back before rolling to face them. “Are you alright?” Elliott asked him. 

“I’m fine. What about you?” All the anger had left Puck’s face and now, for the first time, Elliott saw fear there. 

“Also fine, thanks to you. Are you sure it didn’t hit your head?”

“Yeah, I got lucky.” Sitting up, Puck turned away. Elliott used an elbow to prop themself up and craned their neck to get a better look at Puck, who they suspected was exactly the type to try and conceal an injury. “I’m sorry…” the boy added. 

“For what? You probably just saved my life,” Elliott reminded him.

Puck mumbled something that they couldn’t quite make out. The kid seemed to be retreating into his hoodie, his back still turned to Elliott. 

“What was that?” they asked.

“It wasn’t-- it’s not-- ugh!” he produced a garbled sound of frustration, his words appearing to have failed him, then got to his feet and began to stalk off. 

“Hey, wait!” Elliott called after him

“I’m sorry!” Puck shouted before he took off running. 

Feeling that there was something very wrong about the boy’s reaction, Elliot went after him, following him to where he’d disappeared into the shadows of the trees. There the trail went cold. Elliott couldn’t see or hear any indication of which way he’d run -- Puck was simply gone.