“He’s Gone”: A 30-Hour Vigil in the Great Dismal Swamp, photo 4

I found myself bargaining with the dark. Just let him be tucked under a log, sleeping. Suddenly, a sharp snap rang out from the brush to my right. Not the sound of a falling limb—a deliberate weight.

We froze. We cut our lights to listen. For several agonizing seconds, there was nothing but the sound of our own breathing. Then, a rustle. We flooded the thicket with light. A white-tailed deer leapt from the brush and vanished into the trees. The collective groan of the team was audible. Just a deer.

Dawn arrived as a thick, suffocating fog. The atmosphere at the command post had turned grim. No one said the word, but “Rescue” was being replaced by “Recovery” in everyone’s mind. Thirty hours had passed. Volunteers sat on tailgates, staring at the ground with hollow eyes. We had combed miles of terrain. Nothing.