One place we were drawn to was about six kilometres from my home, a stretch of land where the police told us they had found Tracey’s car, although we didn’t know the exact spot. The road stretched out in front of us like a dull, grey ribbon and long grass hid a rusted barbed wire fence. Fields of mealies reached into the distance, their stalks waving in the wind. Beer cans, bottles and rubbish were scattered along the verge. Huge trees broke the skyline on the horizon, sheltering farmhouses from view, and a lone windmill stood tall nearby. Small dirt tracks spread like spiders’ webs across the landscape and the glint of the sun reflected off a farm dam in the distance. Not even a bird call broke the silence. I stared around me, helpless. We debated walking into the mealie fields to search for Tracey, but realised there were too many acres of farmland for just four of us to cover. I decided that my time would be better spent in talking to the police, letting them do the search.
