It was Thursday, and somehow five days had passed since Jack had disappeared. I’d stopped counting the minutes, but only because they’d morphed into hours, and the hours into days. Although I wanted time to stand still, or better yet, be reversed, it kept going, relentless and cruel. I hadn’t yet found the courage to return to Jack’s apartment but I contacted Heron and Stevens every day, twice a day, and we’d reached the point where they no longer knew what to say other than, “We’re collaborating with all the different counties on missing persons but we’re afraid there’s still no news.”

Mike had insisted I take some paid leave from the garage, an offer I’d ungraciously refused. “What am I supposed to do all day if I’m not here?” I’d snapped, throwing my hands in the air as he gave me a pained expression, no doubt unsure how to handle my misplaced anger and volatile mood swings. I’d stayed late at the garage that night, reorganized the files, archiving the old client records and making sure the new ones were color-coded and alphabetized—things I’d wanted to get around to eventually, but which took on a sudden and immediate urgency.

I knew it was an attempt to keep at least one part of my life under control. I needed to be busy, it helped me avoid sleeping. The night before I’d dreamt I was in the ocean, the skies blue, the sun hot, a perfect summer day until the clouds darkened and the waves picked up. I’d seen Jack’s bloated body floating beneath the surface, his face a mass of rotting, half-eaten flesh, his beautiful features almost unrecognizable. He’d held out a putrid arm as his blue lips mouthed, “Help me, Lily.” I’d woken up screaming and shivering, unable to get back to sleep.

It was lunchtime now, and after Mike shooed me out the door, insisting I take the afternoon off because the bags under my eyes were as big and black as the tires he sold, I headed to the grocery store for a few supplies. As I wandered around, picking up milk that would turn sour and food I swore I’d eat but which would mostly end up in the garbage, my cell rang.

“Lily,” Sam said. “How are you doing? Do you have any news?”

He’d called daily, and this was the way each of our conversations started. I sighed, rested my elbows on the handlebar of my shopping cart. “Nothing.”

“God, this is so stressful, and I can only imagine what you’re going through. It’s so unfair, Jack was...uh...I mean, is, such a great guy.”

Ignoring the slip, I forced the lump in my throat back down, and exhaled quietly, counting to three. “I know... How are things with you? Where are you?”