One by one, I see them taken away from me, their faces darkening and fading. Someone—Olivia, maybe, or possibly a soldier—holds Sonia up amid a flash of camera lights. The twins wave, and Sam flicks a pack of playing cards in the air above Leo’s head. “Fifty-two pickup!” he says. Steven smiles a crooked smile and calls, “Later, Mom.” He cocks his head to one side, as if to say he’s sorry.

And all the while, Patrick watches, saying nothing.

This isn’t really how my Saturday starts.

Patrick opens the blinds, letting a blast of morning sun into the bedroom. The twins and Sonia march in with a tray smelling of coffee and warm bagels—smells that on any other day might get my appetite going, but today they bring another wave of nausea. In the middle of one cream-cheese-smeared bagel is a single candle.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” four voices scream.

I nearly forgot that I’m forty-four today.

“Thanks,” I croak, trying to look hungry. “Where’s Steven?”

“Asleep,” Sam says.

The clock next to my bed glows a digital nine-one-one. I told Lin and Lorenzo I’d be in the lab by ten.

“Blow out the candle and make a wish, Mommy,” Sonia says.

I do it, dripping wax onto my breakfast, then heave myself out of bed and sprint to the bathroom. “Back in a minute. Get Steven up. I want to talk to him before I leave for work.”

The birthday parade reverses and files out. Thirty seconds later, while I’m pouring my undrunk coffee down the sink, Patrick comes in.

“Steven’s gone,” he says quietly.

I think of “gone” in every other semantic sense. Gone to the store, gone running, gone out for morning pizza, gone crazy. I don’t think of it in the simplest of terms. I don’t think of “gone” meaning absent, not here, as in my dream. I don’t think of it as in gone from this life, dead.

Patrick holds out a sheet of notebook paper. “This was in his room. On his pillow.”

It could be worse, I think, reading Steven’s scribble. Still, it—that horrible It—is enough to take the wind out of me.

Gone to look for Julia. Love you. S.

In four days, everything has changed from lousy to shit.

“Should we call the police?” I say.

Patrick shakes his head as if he knows what I’m thinking. “Probably better not to.” He touches my arm and takes the empty coffee mug from my hand without asking What’s the matter with your coffee? or eyeing the streaks of brown in the sink. What he does say is, “I haven’t been a very good husband, have I?”