Anyhow, she left for Bolivia, and, well, as aforementioned, I fell into a fit of depression that ultimately ended with my bingeing all of Netflix, developing an adult–coloring book obsession, and packing on forty pounds of extra cushioning. Fast-forward a year: Harold (my grandpa) dies, I inherit his farm in Missouri, piglets, Wheeler, cold case, GMOs, corruption, weight loss, balloon crash, France, Uncle Thomas.

Throughout it all, Gina was never far from my mind. I considered trying to get in touch with her several times—she gave me a satellite phone number on her departure—but I could never get myself to dial the numbers. She left me. She chose a village over me. If she wanted to talk to me, she would call me—I kept my same cell phone number when I moved to France—and a few months after Clark was born, she did.

The tuberculosis scare in Tibióno had been contained, and the World Health Organization, which was bankrolling her operation, was pulling out and taking their satellite phone with them. She was staying behind and wanted to call and say hi while she still had the chance. Our conversation only lasted a few minutes—both of us not saying what we really wanted to say, then wishing each other the best of luck.

I played the voicemail one final time, listening to Gina’s panicked plea for help, then I took a long, deep breath and flipped a switch in my brain that, much like my sex life, had been collecting dust for going on two years.

I checked my call log. My last two calls were from Lacy, but the third was fourteen digits long. I knew from Gina’s previous call that this was a satellite phone number. It came in at 1:03 a.m. on August 10.

Yesterday.

Clark was clawing for my phone back, and I stood and walked a few feet from him. He began crying. I ignored him. I called the satellite phone number back. I had little hope the call would be answered, but like the start of any good investigation, it was a box that needed checking.

The phone rang once, then stopped. No voicemail, no automatic message, just silence. I hung up and redialed. Same thing: one ring, then silence. The phone was either powered off or dead. Next, I scrolled to the saved satellite phone number Gina had used when she called me a year earlier. I paced the small living room as the phone rang two, then seven, then fifteen times. I hung up and redialed. After sixteen rings, I gave up.