“I have to prep my TA.” Color rises in those pale cheeks, and I suspect she’s panicking.

“Maybe I can drive down. Or when are you leaving?” The young professor looks to me like I’m a lifeline. “Can I ride with you?”

CHAPTER 2

18 Hours Missing

Alex

The framed photograph sitting on my dresser slows my packing efforts. A slight layer of dust lines the curved wooden top. Sophia must have been ten. Our heads are bent together, and we’re lying on the bright white comforter at the Savoy. Cassandra snapped the photo just before room service delivered hot chocolate and cookies as a bedtime snack. I’d expected to watch a Disney princess movie, but Sophia’s tastes had changed. She’d been into the magical world of superheroes, and she pleaded to watch Deadpool. Cassandra laughed at her and said no way. Mother and daughter settled on Thor. The big, muscular, beefy hero worked for me. I remember questioning the violence level for a ten-year-old, but it’s not like I would have ever said anything.

I give up on packing, lift the photo, and use the corner of my comforter to clear the dust. Sophia’s loose blonde curls shine bright in the photo, perfectly off-setting her gorgeous dark blue eyes, exact replicas of her mother’s. One year later, she got braces. A year after that, Cassandra died. When she got those braces off, no traces of the giggly girl in my photo remained. She’d grown up, in too many ways.

Oh, Sophia, where are you?

Trace, my elderly cockapoo, lies on his back, tail wagging, in a position that begs for his belly to be rubbed. Sunlight streams in through my bedroom windows, and he’s basking on the carpet, clueless the suitcase means his mum is about to depart.

“What am I going to do with you?”

He watches with old man eyes as I wrangle clothes into my smallest suitcase. Every day, more white hairs sprout along his nose. At fourteen years of age, he’s healthy, but he can suffer from separation anxiety. My little buddy likes his pack near. I crouch on the floor beside him. His eyelids close in appreciation as I rub his soft underside, and his little tail wags back and forth.

My next-door neighbor mentioned Santa Barbara has a great doggie daycare. More than one person has recommended Dioji, and I’ve seen their ads. But I worry about my old fella. The idea of dropping him off at a strange place doesn’t sit well. And he hasn’t yet attended the required orientation to see how well he plays with others, so it’s not even an option. Shat.

My next-door neighbor’s daughter always asks to pet Trace. The young girl reminds me of the Sophia in my photograph. Sweet, initially shy, but quick to warm to a person. A few minutes of conversation, and the shyness melts.

“You like her, don’t you, buddy?” He licks the back of my hand. “Our neighbor and Sophia. You like anyone who gives you love.” My old man is an egalitarian lover. “Maybe our neighbor would like to make a little extra money?” Doesn’t hurt to ask.