Social hour turned into two with me leading the charge, Diet Coke in hand. I suggested Abuela’s Tavern down the block. The Sea Breeze Lounge was closing soon, and we needed a place to keep the party going. Some genius wanted to walk along the water instead, but I vetoed the idea; the trauma of a childhood jellyfish sting had never really faded, and neither had my repulsion for the shoreline—I could never separate my earlier happy memories of the beach from the slick taste of fear that coated my mouth after that day. When June humidity blanketed La Jolla Cove, as it did then, translucent mushroom tops could be seen floating on the choppy waves, the jellies’ migratory bloom in full swing.

Kelsey, from Minnesota, volunteered that she’d recently moved to Pacific Beach, and wasn’t Garnet Avenue crazy congested? The three native San Diegans (myself, Clarisse, and Tiberius) corrected her in unison: Gar-net! A peal of laughter bubbled from my throat and made me forget for a second that life was hard.

Then I dragged a finger down the screen of my smartphone to refresh my inbox.

Angela’s bathroom mirror reflects dark shadows ringing my eyes. I’d give all my state grant money back to return to that moment at the Sea Breeze, refreshing incessantly, before Seb’s email arrived. To the bliss of not knowing my sister might be gone forever.

I step out from the bathroom and find Seb crawling under the bed. “What are you doing?” I ask.

He inches backward like a garbage truck, slow going, then gestures beneath the bed with a hooked thumb. Gelled black hair sticks out in a dozen directions, dust bunnies hugging the tips. “I found some boxes behind the cookware container. Can you reach them?”

Seb arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, ready to try and piece together Angela’s disappearance. After leaving the police station, craning behind the entire drive back for a glimpse of anyone following me, I returned to the apartment and began sorting through her wardrobe. Then I gave up; I couldn’t box up my sister. For the last two hours, we’ve been reading old essays and leafing through books, separating them into piles of Maybe, Irrelevant, and Potential Clues. Hunching over anything Seb thinks might lead us to the root of Angela’s demise.

Logic and sanity insist I believe my sister dead until I visit the morgue. If it is true she’s still breathing, I’ll have different decisions to make—there’s no way I can leave this city, abandon her in this country, on this continent, if she’s in so much danger that she’s gone into hiding.