« Ethan? »
His bed was made. His desk was clean. And the drawer where he kept his wallet and watch stood open. I remember standing there, frozen, staring at that open drawer as if it could explain everything.
I checked the backyard. The garage. I called his phone once, then twice, then ten times. I sent messages that grew less angry and more desperate with each minute.
Where are you?
This isn’t funny.
Please answer me.
By midnight, I was sitting on the living room floor with my knees pulled to my chest while two police officers asked me calm questions in calm voices that made me want to scream.
« Did he seem upset recently? »
« Was there any conflict at home? »
« No, » I said so many times it stopped sounding like a word. « No. No, he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t leave without telling me. He wouldn’t. »
But he had.
Or at least that was what it looked like.
The days that followed swallowed my life whole. I printed flyers until my fingers cramped. I drove through neighborhoods at night, slowing down at every bus stop, every parking lot, every boy with dark hair and broad shoulders.
I barely slept. I barely ate. Sometimes I would hear a car outside and run to the window so fast I would slam my hip into the table.
