“I’ve seen an older man on the trail. You’re not far behind him,” the hiker with the two German Shepherds says. “Tall, black coat, baseball cap, plaid scarf?”

I lost my grandpa.

Not a euphemism. He took off for a walk in the frozen woods. My mom got worried. Now we’re chasing him down.

“That has to be my grandpa!” I say. I start to jog away. “Thank you!”

Then I’m running hard, because she’s seen a tall old guy in a ball cap and black coat and he’s not far ahead of me. And that’s the most hopeful words I’ve heard since I started searching.

The park trails have iced over during the cold night. Slush has frozen day old running shoe prints into ice age fossils. It’s treacherous terrain now, but the weather forecast shows it’s going to storm in less than an hour.

I’ve somehow worn too many layers and too few at the same time.

My grandpa left his phone in his car. My mom’s walking the other trail direction trying to find him. The park he walks each week is over twenty miles of trails.

I pull my phone out of my coat pocket, check my messages. None from my mom. Two from my grandma, a few hours old, pre-lost-grandpa timeframe.

“5 letter word. My letters are ENRAGR,” my grandma texts, looking for the right word to finish her sudoku word problem.

Anger, my brain translates her word puzzle. Rage. I think of my mom as we chase her dad down on these icy trails.

Wait. No. Rage is four letters, not five.

Jumping into the snow drifts on each side of the path, I try to offset the danger of not having really run since high school swim team conditioning.

Then I see him—the man in the black coat and ball cap and plaid scarf.

I spit out whatever has been gathering up in my throat and fall into a sprint.

“Hey!” I shout.

Three letter word. Incorrect, I suppose, because the walker doesn’t hear.

“Wait!” I shout.

I pump my arms, making a face at the sweat I didn’t know could gather in my elbow pits. The man in the black coat doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even turn around.

I need an eight letter word. My letters are JERKFACE.

“Grandpa!” I try. Why not? Even if he wasn’t my wandering, wayward, walking grandpa, maybe he was someone’s grandpa. There’s one word to unlock this puzzle. I just have to find it.

The man doesn’t turn around. In fact, he’s walking faster now. Much faster.

I squint into the snow. The guy’s definitely jogging now.

I dial my mom. Fast. Even with numb fingers.

“Mom would grandpa be wearing a plaid scarf?” The words come out in a jumble.

“I’m not sure, I’d have to call grandma. Why?”

“There’s someone ahead of me that’s got a plaid scarf on. Looks a lot like grandpa. From the back. He’s running away from me.”

Mom has this gift of being able to express herself with the exact words she needs in the moment. She doesn’t resort to swear words. They’re not descriptive enough for her. “I’m calling grandma. If that’s him, make sure you give him the biggest earful on safety. I’ll call you back.”

I wait. My phone battery drains in the cold. My legs feel like they’re full of greasy bacon instead of muscles. A real runner passes me on the left. No hacking up globs of spit or sporting soaking wet shoes. She sees me standing there, gripping my phone.

“Are you okay?” she says. She doesn’t even sound out of breath. That eight letter word comes to my mind.

“Just looking for my grandpa.” Just lost my grandpa in twenty miles of interweaving trails. Just ran five miles for the first time in my entire life. Just trying to imagine it’s my grandpa that’s jogging away from me with the plaid scarf. Just so that I stop imagining my grandpa with a broken leg, slowly dying on a trail in the middle of the woods. “Thanks.”

She waves over her shoulder as she keeps running.

My phone buzzes. I fumble to answer it. “Is he wearing a plaid scarf?” I say, as if I’ve forgotten the five letter word, letters LELOH.

“I found him, Gab,” my mom says. “He’s fine. He’s having fun; we’re going to walk back to his car together. Your sister is coming to pick you up in her car. Are you close to the road?”

I just stand there, mouth open. I stare at the plaid scarf man, at a loss for words. At a loss for even the letters to make them.

“Grandpa!” I say, not at the scared plaid scarf guy this time, the word pushed out by my exhaustion and frustration and relief and the miles of running and the dang plaid scarf guy that thought he was being chased and my freezing cold toes and—

What else was I suppose to say? Grandpa’s having a blast out in this tundra. And the fact was, I can see the road through the trees from where I’m standing.

“Okay.” I say. Words are simple until they’re a minefield. “Okay. I’ll see you when you get home then. Be safe.”

I don’t say I don’t think I’ll be able to chase after the both of you if something went wrong.