“I haven’t found anything yet.”
“Still counts.”
We start turning the cabin upside down, me checking under couch cushions, Wyatt rummaging under the sink, both of us dodging Jesse and his wrestling children as they skitter through the room.
“Could it be outside?” I suggest.
“I didn’t take it outside,” Wyatt says with the solemn certainty of a man who absolutely did take it outside.
“Not even once?”
His shoulders sag. “Okay. Maybe.”
We check the porch.
We check beneath the rocking chair.
We check by the firewood stack.
I even check the rafters, because the kids have a habit of relocating objects to unholy locations.
Nothing.
I lean against the porch railing. Unable to help it, I laugh.
Wyatt throws his hands up. “This is tragic. I’m losing my mind.”
“You’re not,” I say, smiling. “You’re stressed. We all are.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. You’re right. I just… need my mug.”
“Why is it special?” I ask.
He huffs a small laugh. “Sentimental reasons. My mom mailed it to me during my first semester of vet school. She saidif I was going to study all night, I needed a mug bigger than my stress.”
“That’s sweet.”
“She still does it, ever since her and dad moved out of town,” he says. “Sends me random tea blends. Care packages. Apparently, I’m incapable of feeding myself.”
“And are you?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I would die without my mother.”
I laugh again.
And then, something catches my eye.
Under the porch steps, barely visible behind a piece of firewood, is a faint blue rim.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, pointing.
He bolts forward on instinct, notebook and dignity forgotten, and drops to his knees.
“My mug!” he exclaims, dragging it out triumphantly. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“Tragedy averted.”
He stands, dust-covered, mug in hand. He’s a knight retrieving a sacred relic.
