“He’s Gone”: A 30-Hour Vigil in the Great Dismal Swamp, photo 2

Then, my headset hissed. “Lead, I’ve found a marker.” The voice was taut. I broke rank and scrambled over a rotted stump, rushing to the location. It was nearly half a mile from the trailhead, deep in a section of the swamp choked with briars.

There, draped over a jagged branch like a flag of surrender, was a bright white scrap of fabric. It was his shirt. It wasn’t ripped or snagged—it looked as though it had been purposefully discarded. My heart sank. Why would a child strip off his only layer of protection as the night turned cold?

“Back off,” I barked at the team member moving toward it. “We need the K9s to take the scent.” Finding the shirt changed the math. It meant he had traveled much further than a toddler should be able to navigate in such a short window. But it also meant he was now wandering the wetlands in nothing but his skin as the damp chill set in.

The K9 handler, a quiet veteran named Vance, arrived shortly after. His German Shepherd, Jax, took a long pull of the scent from the white shirt. The dog’s tail went stiff, and he surged into the undergrowth. “He’s on it!” Vance shouted. We struggled to keep pace, our boots sinking into the muck as the last of the light failed.