“That’s a Y-chromosome thing,” said Vani dismissively, flicking a wrist. “They outgrow it in the teenage years when it finally dawns on them there’s a direct correlation between hygiene and hooking up.”

“Speaking of teenage boys, that’s the only beautiful thing about the collapse of civilization. Nobody’s allowed to touch other people, which means my teenage daughter can’t hook up with any of these hairy ogres.” I felt a little mean after this pronouncement; Gnash or Hash, or whatever his name was, was probably a nice kid. After all: he was somebody’s beloved child too.

“Right on,” said Vani with real feeling. She also had a teenage daughter. “But they’re all withering. Reggie cried for about five hours last night when he realized there isn’t going to be Little League this spring.”

I pumped the brakes before the conversation could devolve into a variant of the same sad lament repeated every day by every parent on the globe. You could talk for hours about the psychological impact on the poor little flowers in the attic, but to me these discussions only accentuated the heartbreak. I needed to get back to work, where my team at least stood a chance of impacting this newest disaster.

“I gotta go,” I said. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” said Vani. “Oh wait: I didn’t even tell you the big news.”

“What big news?”

Vani paused, savoring the moment. “Georgia,” she said, “is in labor.”

—

GEORGIA’S LABOR COULDN’T have come at a better time: a Sunday, when I was home and stood a decent chance of being able to make the virtual delivery. Still, with a first child, this could drag on for days. Vani said Hannah would text us a link when Georgia was midway through the second stage so we could all cheer her on.

In the meantime, I’d better get as much done as possible. Before settling back into work, I checked on Beau, who assured me he had plenty of work to keep him busy, and then Rorie, who’d announced after lunch that she’d be reading in her room.

Rorie’s room, when I entered it, contained only a hazy cloud of dust motes, floating in a yellow pool of light from the desktop lamp. A lump in the bed appeared promising but turned out to be a tangle of Rorie’s tattered blue comforter and her battered stuffed duck, Mr. Quackers. Puzzled, I checked the rest of the rooms in the house, including, with mounting alarm, the attic. Rorie was not in the house.

I opened the front door and surveyed the yard.

Outside, the rain slanted down almost sideways. The tops of the pine trees danced in the winter storm, whipped back and forth by the gusting wind. A river of water, colored a lurid, opaque orange from the dirt of a nearby house under construction, surged past the house at the curb. There was no way Rorie would have gone out in this on foot. Where could she be?