The first two hours of the search were a blur of blinding white light and jagged shadows. Every stump looked like a crouching child; every gust of wind sounded like a distant cry for “Daddy.” Mathew led his team through the “Thicket of Thorns,” a dense patch of brush that Mike usually avoided because it scratched his legs.
“Mike! Michael! Can you hear me?” Mathew roared. The searchers beside him blew whistles, the sharp blasts echoing off the rock faces. They found a small indentation in the snow beneath a fallen log—a place where a child might have sat to rest—but there were no clues left behind. No dropped glove, no scrap of fabric.