Five.
“We should – ”
“ – don’t even know – ”
“ – has a right – ”
“What are we supposed to – ”
“ – think that he – ”
“Ryan.”
The voices filter in through the last wisps of dreams, the last clear and intent; Spencer’s. If Ryan were awake he’d be able to tell what it means, the way Spencer says his name, the tightness and inflection and too-even calm.
He fights his way up groggily, wondering what time it is and why he can’t feel the purr of the bus engine beneath his bunk. They can’t be at the venue already, they aren’t scheduled to arrive until noon at the earliest, and Ryan hasn’t slept that long.
“Ryan, hey.” Spencer’s voice again, so he sits up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and forcing his mind into alertness. One of his hands lands automatically on the pillow beside him, but there’s no one there; it’s cold. Brendon has probably been up for hours, he’s still somehow perky at seven a.m. while the rest of them are walking zombies.
“What’s up?” he asks finally, tongue thick and sticky in his mouth, morning breath making him wrinkle his nose and wish for toothpaste. Spencer doesn’t seem to notice, though; his face is serious and solemn. Ryan blinks a few times and squints at him. “Spence?”
That’s when they tell him.
He doesn’t comprehend it at first, and it doesn’t make sense anyway, what they’re not saying, which is much louder in his ears than what they are. He doesn’t believe it at all until he sees something flash, yanks his blinds aside and sees the police cruiser sitting next to the bus, lights on but no siren.
“Zack called the cops as soon as we knew,” Jon is saying, and it ought to make sense but it doesn’t, it doesn’t at all. “Not that we know anything, really, but he thought…”
“Did we stop?” Ryan interrupts, finally starting to put it together. “Did he get off, did he get left somewhere? We should ask the driver…”
“We didn’t stop,” Spencer says, and his voice is still controlled, calm and it’s starting to freak Ryan out a little. “They already asked. We’ve been going since…”
“Not even for gas? You know how he is, he could have…” Ryan is still determined, eliminating possibilities he doesn’t want to think about because they don’t make any sense.
“Ry,” Spencer says, and this time his voice cracks, just a little, and that’s even worse. “He left a note.”
A nightmare of police reports later, Spencer comes out and sits beside him. Ryan has his hands between his knees, staring out at the murky morning, the unrelieved grey of mist and clouds blocking the sunlight. It feels a little like a television drama; ten a.m., four hours missing, or maybe five. Ryan can vouch for six, which is later than the rest of them can, but he doesn’t know what happened after that. No one does.
Spencer doesn’t try to hug him, doesn’t rub his shoulders or say are you okay? because he’s better than that, and Ryan would be grateful if he were feeling anything other than the way he is right now.
The note is still in his hand, written with more care than Brendon’s usual scrawl, but his signature is as familiar as Ryan’s own, more so with Ryan’s finger tracing the B, over and over. Brendon had left it next to the coffeemaker in the kitchenette, where Ryan wouldn’t be the first one to find it, but it still feels like it’s been left for him. Two words, and he doesn’t know what they mean.
