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?”
“Has he ever talked about leaving before?”
“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.
