I cast a glance back toward the hulking shapes of marble and onyx and granite, and I wonder what they cover, what they crushed.

“Do you suppose Mr. Hocking will build again?” Libby says. “That is, if he can be found. Oh, but of course he will be found. Of course he will!” She leans into me and squeezes my arm. “We are going to rebuild,” she continues optimistically. “The outside brick is all right, but everything inside needs to be redone, and oh! I’m expecting a baby! I never got a chance to tell you! So we’ll be building a new nursery. I’m hoping for a little girl this time.”

I let Libby chatter away as we walk. There’s nothing I wish to contribute to the conversation, and my silence seems to be provoking sympathy from the policeman. He keeps glancing at me with eyes full of compassion. I will hopefully be more likely believed if I appear to be so distraught about my missing husband I can barely speak.

We arrive some blocks later at a temporary police station on Washington Street. It appears to have been an office building of some kind prior to the disaster. There are adding machines piled in a corner and more desks than the police officers probably need. There is a hum of activity in the large open space as other officers and men in plain clothes speak with one another. There are a few other women in the room, most seated at typewriters, tapping away. The officer politely asks if Libby can wait for me in a sitting area by the front door while I provide the officer with the details of my missing husband. He then sets me down in a chair at the far end of the busy room and hands me a glass of water.

“She likes to talk, that one,” the officer says, nodding toward Libby.

“She . . . she likes to be helpful.”

The officer takes a seat at a desk across from me and pulls a sheet of paper from out of its top drawer. “Now, then. I just need to get all the pertinent details.”

I provide all the information about my husband, his name, our address on Polk, his age, what he looks like, any distinguishing marks, what he was wearing when I last saw him. I tell him that Martin left San Francisco in his vehicle—which I have never seen but which Martin has told me is a Ford Model T painted dark blue and which he keeps garaged down by the Embarcadero.

When the officer asks when I last saw Martin, the lie comes off my tongue easily. I tell him that I last saw my husband three days before the earthquake and that I expected him home the day of.

“And this is the first time you have reported that he’s missing?” the policeman says, cocking his head.

“I wasn’t aware he was missing until now. I didn’t know how to get back into the city. It wasn’t easy to get out, you know, and it was hard to get back in. My daughter and I were evacuated to Golden Gate Park and left the city as soon as the fires were put out. She and I have been staying with a friend. I didn’t think Martin was missing until I got back to San Francisco and could not find him here. I thought perhaps he would be at the house. I didn’t know it had burned.” So many lies, so easy to say. “I thought maybe he was worried our daughter and I were the ones who were missing.”