The sheriff listened.
Then a park official leaned back in his chair and sighed.
“Frank, even if I granted you every word, what are you asking me to do?
Close a two-thousand-square-kilometer national park?
Tell millions of visitors something is out there?
You’d destroy the region’s tourism overnight.
It’s easier,” he said, quieter, “to believe these people simply got lost.”
Anna’s hands curled into fists. “Easier for who?” No one answered.
A week later, Frank’s phone rang. Unknown number. 
“Mr.
Jenkins,” said a calm voice. “I used to work for the federal government,
on incidents in protected wilderness areas.
I’m going to tell you something, and then I’m going to hang up,
and you’ll never hear from me again.” Frank sat down slowly.
“There’s a category in our files,” the voice said.
“Incidents with X factor. Disappearances and deaths that don’t fit.
